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WORLDS  OF 


OCTOBER  1966 
50? 


SCiENCE  FICTION 

sm)N  muE  m THE  mms 

by  J.l  McIntosh 


GORDON  R.  DICKSON  • LARRY  NIVEN  * A.  BERTRAM  CHANDLER 


MOON  MAP  PUZZLE 

Official  Rand  McNally  Map  taken  from  ac- 
tual photos  of  the  moon.  This  circular  Map 
Puzzle  shows  mountains,  craters,  seas, 
basins  and  valleys,  with  frame  containing 
information  about  eclipses,  tides,  and  sea- 
sons. Map  when  completed  21^4"  x 
Made  of  heavy  cardboard  and  diecut. 


SELCHOW  & RIGHTER  CO. 
BAY  SHORE,  NEW  YORK 


OCTOBER,  1966 
Vol.  16,  No.  10 
ISSUE  107 


WORLDS  OF 


SCIENJC^ 

FICTION 


ALL  NEW 
STORIES 


Frederik  Pohl,  Editor  David  Perton,  Prodvcfion  Mgr. 

Robert  M.  Guinn,  Publisher 

Judy-Lynn  Beniamin,  Associate  Editor  Mavis  Fisher,  Subscription  Mgr. 


NOVELETTES 

NEUTRON  STAR  ...L 7 

by  Larry  Niven 

TUNNEL  WARRIOR 70 

by  Joseph  P.  Martino 

ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY  86 

by  Ernest  Hill 

IN  THE  BONE  140 

by  Gordon  R.  Dickson 

SERIALS 

SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS  32 

by  J.  T.  McIntosh 

EDGE  OF  NIGHT 105 

by  A.  Bertram  Chandler 

SHORT  STORIES 

YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 23 

by  Michael  Walker 

THE  SPY  GAME  101 

by  Rachel  Cosgrove  Payes 

FEATURES 

EDITORIAL  4 

by  Frederik  Pohl 

HANDY  PHRASE  BOOK  IN  FANNISH  65 

by  Lin  Carter 

HUE  AND  CRY  160 


Cover  by  ADKINS  from  YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 

IF  published  monthly  by  Galaxy  Publishing  Corporation,  Robert  M.  Guinn,  President, 
Vol.  16,  No.  10.  Main  Office:  421  Hudson  Street,  New  York,  New  York,  10014.  50c 
per  copy.  Subscription  12  issues  $5.00  in  the  United  States,  Canada,  Mexico,  South 
America  and  Central  America  and  U.  S.  Possessions,  elsewhere  $6.00.  Second-class 
postage  paid  at  New  York,  New  York,  and  at  additional  mailing  offices.  Copy- 
right by  Galaxy  Publishing  Corporation,  1966.  All  rights,  including  translations 
reserved.  All  material  submitted  must  be  accompanied  by  self-addressed  stamped 
envelope.  The  Publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  unsolicited  material.  All  stories 
are  fiction,  and  any  similarity  between  characters  and  actual  persons  is  coincidental. 
Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A.  by  the  Guinn  Company,  New  York,  N.  Y.  10014. 


IF  ^ Editorial 


TV  BY  THE  NUMBERS 


Murray  Leinster  was  in  the  of- 
fice the  other  day  to  talk  about 
stories.  So  we  talked  about  them 
(and  hope  to  be  bringing  you  some 
of  the  results  of  the  talk  shortly) ; 
after  which  the  conversation  turned 
to  the  business  which  had  brought 
Leinster  to  New  York.  He  had  been 
talking  patent  releases  with  a large 
corporation.  The  patent  was  his 
own.  It  seems  that  some  years  ago 
one  of  Leinster^s  stories  was  being 
adapted  for  a television  program 
and,  visiting  on  the  lot,  Leinster 
noticed  an  awful  lot  of  activity  go- 
ing on  in  putting  up  and  breaking 
down  sets.  Turned  out,  that  studio 
alone  was  spending  an  amount  in 
five  figures  every  week  — not  to 
build  new  sets,  but  just  to  truck 
old  ones  back  and  forth  between  the 
warehouse  and  the  studio  as  needed. 

That  struck  Leinster  as  rather  a 
waste.  It  was  just  background,  after 
all.  If  you  photographed  it  once,  it 
should  stay  photographed.  ...  So 
he  went  home  and  designed  an  op- 
tical system  to  make  it  possible  to 
retain  the  backgrounds  without  all 
the  bother  of  having  them  physically 
present  all  the  time  . . . and  the 
royalties  from  that  are  one  reason 
why  you  don^t  see  as  many  Leinster 
stories  as  you  used  to  any  more. 

Which  started  your  editor  think- 
ing. 


Photographing  sets  once  instead 
of  a hundred  times  js  a fine 
saving,  no  doubt.  But  look.  You 
don^t  really  want  the  sets  at  all  in 
the  long  run,  do  you?  All  you  want 
is  an  image  of  the  sets. 

For  that  matter,  you  donT  really 
want  props  — or  actors. 

Maybe  you  don’t  even  need  cam- 
eras. 

In  order  to  give  your  television 
audience  an  hour’s  amusement  (or 
addicted  boredom,  which  is  more 
like  it) , you  only  need  to  make 
sure  that  a finite  number  of  phos- 
phor spots  on  the  inside  of  a cath- 
ods  tube  sparkle  in  the  proper  or- 
der. That’s  all  that  goes  on  now, 
of  course.  It  happens  that  the  elec- 
tron gun  that  makes  the  phosphors 
sparkle  is  programmed  by  a video 
camera,  which  in  turn  is  program- 
med by  scanning  live  actors  on  a 
live  set.  But  still.  . . . 

Each  point  of  light  on  the  TV 
tube  is  still  just  a point  of  light. 
It’s  either  on  or  off.  That’s  all.  (Not 
counting  color  television,  where  the 
signal  in  the  set  specifies  “chromin- 
ance” as  well  as  “luminance”  — but 
let’s  not  bother  about  color  for  a 
moment.) 

There  are  about  420  active  phos- 
phor spots  on  each  line  of  an  Amer- 
ican tube.  You  could  write  that  line 
as  a binary  number.  Let  “1”  be  on; 


4 


look  who’s 
smiling 


"The  department  head's  job  had  just  been  left 
vacant.  When  the  boys  in  the  office  learned  t 
was  gunning  for  it,  they  gave  me  their  widest 
grins.  One  thing  they  didn’t  know:  I had  made 
up  my  mind  sometime  back  to  take  LaSalle  M 
training  that  would  qualify  me  for  a better  job.  ^ 
My  study  paid  off  so  fast  it  surprised  even  me-  ^ 
I was  picked  for  that  shiny  promotion  overevery^ 
one's  head.  Who  wouldn’t  be  smiling  with  a neat 
new  $1,500  increase!” 


L SALLE’S  FILES  are  filled  with  letters  with  this  kind  of 
story  from  LaSalle  graduates  who  have  rapidly 
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LaSalle  has  been  an  acknowledged  leader  in  home  edu- 
cation for  more  than  half  a century.  It  has  enrolled  more 
than  1,000,000  ambitious  men  and  women  in  its  many 
types  of  training  courses.  LaSalle’s  distinguished  faculty 
includes  some  of  the  country’s  foremost  practicing  spe- 
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good,  experienced  hands . . . why  your  LaSalle  diploma 
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Mailing  the  LaSalle  coupon  below  may  be  the  first  step 
in  getting  a better  job,  higher  pay,  and  all  of  the  good 
things  that  go  with  success.  Simply  check  the  program  in 
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valuable  free  btwklet  describing  the  opportunities  in  that 
field.  Mail  the  coupon  to  LaSalle,  417  South  Dearborn 
Street,  Chicago,  Illinois  60605. 


LASALLE  EXTENSION  UNIVERSITY 


A Correspondence  Institution*  417  South  Dearborn,  Dapt.  58-023  Chicago,  lllinoia  SOSOS 


I Please  ^end  me,  without  cost  or  obligation,  FREE  booklet  and  full  information  On  the  field  I have  checked  below:  I 


ACCOUNTING 
Q Complete  Accounting 
with  CPA  Training 
O Cenergl  Accounting 
(3  Income  Tax 
Q'jkccounting  Pundomentoh 
Q Auditing 
G Controllerthip 
Q CPA  Training 
Q Modern  Bookkeeping 

BUSINESS  MANAGEMENT 
Q-Compieta  Butlneu 
Management 
13  Credit  and  Collection! 

G Office  Management 
Q Personnel  Management 
G Butineu  Corretpondenc# 
331 


LAW  COURSES 
G Bachelor  of  Lawi  Degree 
G Buiineu  law 
Q Insurance  law 
G Claim  Adjusting  law 
G low  for  Police  Officer! 
O law  for  Trust  Officer! 
SAIESMANSHIP 
Q Sales  Management 
O Complete  Soles  Troining 
DRAFTING 
G Basic  Drofting 
G Aeronautical  Drafting 
G Architectural  Drafting 
G Electrical  Drafting 
Q Mechanical  Drafting 
G Structural  Drafting 


REAl  ESTATE 
G Complete  Reol  Estate 
G Reol  Estote  Brokerage 
G'keal  Estate  Management 
G keal  Estate  Soles 
TRAFFIC  AND 
TRANSPORTATION 
Q Complete  Troffic  MgK 
Q Tronsportotion  low 
G Rotes  and  Tariffs 


G Agency  end  Service!  NIGH  SCHOOL 

G Motor  Truck  Traffic  Q High  School  Diploma 
STENOTYPE 

G Mochine  Shorthand  CAREERSTOIt  WOMEN 

technical  COURSES  OtntertarOecorotor 

G Mechontegl  Refrigeration  □ Dental  Assistont 

□ AlrOondttionfng,  QiSecmiarfal 

Refrigeration  Q AceounfHig 

and  Heating  □ Boetlltaeptrig 

□ Diesel  QRealEstat* 


Name c •*••• » »Age 

•.•.•.CDonty*  

ZfpNo. 

Occupation . Vorkiitg  Botirs. . . ,AM%,  . • -PJtf. 


Addrest 
Csty& 
State. . 


5 


let  ^^0”  be  off.  A string-  of  420  l^s 
would  mean  every  one  of  those  spots 
would  be  on.  A binary  number  like 
1001  ...  00  would  mean  the  first 
spot  is  on,  the  second  off,  the  third 
off,  the  fourth  on  ...  up  to  the  last 
two  being  off.  (Write  the  missing 
414  digits  to  please  yourself  — we 
don't  have  room!) 

That  takes  care  of  one  line ; there 
are  525  lines  to  a frame.  Well,  write 
each  line  separately.  It  takes  220,000 
binary  digits  to  describe  the  whole 
picture  — but  it  is  still  just  a num- 
ber. And  yet  that  number  can  repre- 
sent anything  a television  screen  can 
show,  from  Chet  Huntley  announc- 
ing the  end  of  the  world  to  Lassie 
preventing  it  from  happening. 
That's  all  a television  picture  is, 
you  see;  a binary  number. 

The  only  thing  wrong  with  the 
picture  is  that  it's  a snapshot.  It 
doesn't  move. 

But  that's  easily  enough  solved. 
Erase  the  picture  — actually,  you 
don't  have  to;  the  decay  time  of  the 
phosphor  is  carefully  planned  so  that 
it  will  erase  itself  as  necessary. 
Write  a new  one.  Write  thirty  new 
ones  and  run  them  one  after  an- 
other, and  you  have  a full  second  of 
actual  animated  activity  on  the  tube 
— total  size  of  the  numbers  you 
have  written,  now  Just  short  of 
seven  million  bits. 

From  there  on  its  just  multiplica- 
tion. A 25  billion  digit  number  gives 
you  an  hour  show.  600  billion  digits 
gives  you  twenty-four  hours  of  pro- 
gramming, or  more  than  you  get 
on  any  but  a few  eccentric  stations 
in  the  world  each  day. 

Of  course,  you  may  want  it  in 


color,  which  adds  a problem.  How 
much  of  a problem  depends  on  what 
system  of  color  television  you  are 
using  and  how  you  elect  to  encode 
it;  but  you  could  do  it  by  simply 
tripling  the  number  of  digits. 

You  stiy  only  have  to  write  one 
unique  number  each  day,  and  out 
of  it  comes  the  morning  news,  the 
housewives'  exercise  hour,  the  quiz 
shows,  the  sports  events,  the  comics 
and  the  singers,  the  panel  shows 
and  the  documentaries  ...  and 
all  the  little  commercials  as  well. 
Nothing  hard  about  writing  one 
number  a day,  is  there?  Even  if 
the  number  chances  to  be  slightly 
less  than  two  trillion  digits  long? 

Actually  it  might  not  be  as  hard 
as  you  think.  Between  the  220, 
000  digits  in  any  given  frame  and 
the  220,000  digits  in  the  one  that 
follows  it  a thirtieth  of  a second 
later,  there  isn't  really  a great  deal 
of  change  — and  what  change  there 
is  is  reasonably  systematic.  I.e.,  can 
be  programmed  into  a computer. 
And  think  what  you'd  save!  Produc- 
tion costs  on  a single  TV  hour  can 
run  half  a million  dollars.  Each  of 
those  little  one-minute  commercials 
can  cost  tens  of  thousands  — and 
go  on  costing  thousands  in  residuals, 
every  time  they're  used.  But  your 
computer-generated  binary  number 
wouldn't  expect  residuals.  Comput- 
ers rarely  if  ever  belong  to  AFTRA. 

Anyway,  there  it  is.  NBC,  ABC, 
CBS,  BBC  and  others  — take  no- 
tice. And  when  you  get  around  to 
sending  royalty  checks,  please  make 
them  out  to  — 

—THE  EDITOR 


6 


IF 


IF  • Novelette 


NEUTRON  STAR 

by  LARRY  NIVEN 

Illustrated  by  ADKINS 


If  was  the  kind  of  star  so  tiny 
but  massive  that  it  trapped  even 
light.  Now  it  trapped  even  me! 


I 

The  Skydiver  dropped  out  of 
hyperspace  an  even  million 
miles  above  the  neutron  star.  I 
needed'  a minute  to  place  my- 
self against  the  stellar  background 
and  another  to  find  the  distortion 
Sonya  Laskin  had  mentioned  before 
she  died.  It  was  to  my  left,  an  area 
the  apparent  size  of  the  Earth’s 
moon.  I swung  the  ship  around  to 
face  it. 

Curdled  stars,  muddled  stars, 
stars  that  had  been  stirred  with  a 
spoon. 


The  neutron  star  was  in  the  cen- 
ter, of  course,  though  I couldn’t  see 
it  and  hadn’t  expected  to.  It  was 
only  eleven  miles  across,  and  cool. 
A billion  years  had  passed  since 
BVS-1  burned  by  fusion  fire.  Mil- 
lions of  years,  at  least,  since  the 
cataclysmic  two  weeks  during  which 
BVS-1  was  an  X-ray  star,  burning 
at  a temperature  of  five  billion  de- 
grees Kelvin.  Now  it  showed  only 
by  its  mass. 

The  ship  began  to  turn  by  it- 
self. I felt  the  pressure  of  the  fusion 
drive.  Without  help  from  me,  my 
faithful  metal  watchdog  was  putting 


7 


me  in  hyjperbolic  orbit  that  would 
take  me  Within  one  mile  of  the  neu- 
tron star’s  surface.  Twenty-four 
hours  to  fall,  twenty-four  hours  to 
rise  . . . and  during  that  time,  some- 
thing would  try  to  kill  me.  As  some- 
thing had  killed  the  Laskins. 

The  same  type  of  autopilot,  with 
the  same  program,  had  chosen  the 
Laskins’  orbit.  It  had  not  caused 
their  ship  to  collide  with  the  star. 
I could  trust  the  autopilot.  I could 
even  change  its  program. 

I really  ought  to. 

How  did  I get  myself  into  this 
hole? 

The  drive  went  off  after  ten  min- 
utes of  maneuvering.  My  orbit  was 
established,  in  more  , ways  than  one. 
I knew  what  would  happen  if  I tried 
to  back  out  now. 

All  I’d  done  was  walk  into  a drug- 
store to  get  a new  battery  for  my 
lighter! 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  store, 
surrounded  by  three  floors  of 
sales  counters,  was  the  new  2603 
Sinclair  intrasystem  yacht.  I’d  come 
for  a battery,  but  I stayed  to  admire. 
It  was  a beautiful  job,  small  and 
sleek  and  streamlined  and  blatantly 
different  from  anything  that’s  ever 
been  built.  I wouldn’t  have  flown 
it  for  anything,  but  I had  to  admit 
it  was  pretty.  I ducked  my  head 
through  the  door  to  look  at  the 
control  panel.  You  never  saw  so 
many  dials.  When  I pulled  my  head 
out,  all  the  customers  were  looking 
in  the  same  direction.  The  place  had 
gone  startlingly  quiet. 

I can’t  blame  them  for  staring.  A 
numiber  of  aliens  were  in  the  store. 


mainly  shopping  for  souvenirs,  but 
they  were  staring  too.  A puppeteer 
is  unique.  Imagine  a headless,  three- 
legged  centaur  wearing  two  Cecil  the 
Seasick  Sea  Serpent  puppets  on  his 
arms,  and  you’ll  have  something  like 
the  right  picture.  But  the  arms  are 
weaving  necks,  and  the  puppets  are 
real  heads,  flat  and  brainless,  with 
wide  flexible  lips.  The  brain  is  un- 
der a bony  hump  set  between  the 
bases  of  the  necks.  This  puppeteer 
wore  only  its  own  coat  of  brown 
hair,  with  a mane  that  extended  all 
the  way  up  its  spine  to  form  a thick 
mat  over  the  brain.  I’m  told  that  the 
way  they  wear  the  mane  indicates 
their  status  in  society,  but  to  me  it 
could  have  been  anything  from  a 
dock  worker  to  a jeweler  to  the  presi- 
dent of  General  Products. 

I watched  with  the  rest  as  it 
came  across  the  floor,  not  because 
I’d  never  seen  a puppeteer,  but 
because  there  is  something  beautiful 
about  the  dainty  way  they  move  on 
those  slender  legs  and  tiny  hooves. 
I watched  it  come  straight  toward 
me,  closer  and  closer.  It  stopped  a 
foot  away,  looked  me  over  and  said, 
“You  are  Beowulf  Shaeffer,  former 
chief  pilot  for  Nakamura  Lines.” 

Its  voice  was  a beautiful  contralto 
with  not  a trace  of  accent.  A pup- 
peteer’s mouths  are  not  only  the 
most  flexible  speech  organs  around, 
but  also  the  most  sensitive  hands. 
The  tongues  are  forked  and  point- 
ed, the  wide,  thick  lips  have  little 
fingerlike  knobs  along  the  rims.  Im- 
agine a watchmaker  with  a sense  of 
taste  in  his  fingertips  . . . 

I cleared  my  throat.  “That’s  right.” 

It  consider^  me  from  two  direc- 


8 


IF 


tions.  “You  would  be  interested  in 
a high-paying  job?” 

“I’d  be  fascinated  in  a high-paying 
job.” 

“I  am  our  equivalent  of  the  region- 
al president  of  General  Products. 
Please  come  with  me,  and  we  will 
discuss  this  elsewhere.” 

1 followed  it  into  a displacement 
'booth.  Eyes  followed  me  all  the 
way.  It  was  embarrassing,  being  ac- 
costed in  a public  drugstore  by  a 
two-headed  monster.  Maybe  the  pup- 
peteer knew  it.  Maybe  it  was  testing 
me  to  see  how  badly  I needed  money. 

My  need  was  great.  Eight  months 
had  passed  since  Nakamura  Lines 
folded.  For  some  time  before  that, 
I had  been  living  very  high  on  the 
hog,  knowing  that  my  back  pay 
would  cover  by  debts.  I never  saw 
that  back  pay.  It  was  quite  a crash, 
Nakamura  Lines.  Respectable  mid- 
dle-aged businessmen  took  to  leaving 
their  hotel  windows  without  their  lift 
belts.  Me,  I kept  spending.  If  I’d 
started  living  frugally,  my  creditors 
would  have  done  some  checking  . . . 
and  I’d  have  ended  in  debtor’s  prison. 

The  pupp>eteer  dialed  thirteen  fast 
digits  with  its  tongue.  A moment 
later  we  .were  elsewhere.  Air  puffed 
out  when  I opened  the  booth  door, 
and  I swallowed  to  pop  my  ears. 

“We  are  on  the  roof  of  the  Gen- 
eral Products  building.”  The  rich 
contralto  voice  thrilled  along  my 
nerves,  and  I had  to  remind  myself 
that  it  was  an  alien  speaking,  not 
a lovely  woman.  “You  must  examine 
this  spacecraft  while  we  discuss  your 
assignment.” 

I stepped  outside  a little  cautious- 


ly, but  it  wasn’t  the  windy  season. 
The  roof  was  at  ground  level.  That’s 
the  way  we  build  on  We  Made  It. 
Maybe  it  has  something  to  do 
with  the  fifteen-hundred-mile-an- 
hour  winds  we  get  in  summer  and 
winter,  when  the  planet’s  axis  of  ro- 
tation runs  through  its  primary, 
Procyon.  The  winds  are  our  planet’s 
only  tourist  attraction;  and  it  would 
be  a shame  to  slow  them  down  by 
planting  skyscrapers  in  their  path. 
The  bare,  square  concrete  roof  was 
surrounded  by  endless  square  miles 
of  desert,  not  like  the  deserts  of 
other  inhabited  worlds,  but  an  ut- 
terly lifeless  expanse  of  fine  sand 
just  crying  to  be  planted  with  orna- 
mental cactus.  We’ve  tried  that.  The 
wind  blows  the  plants  away. 

The  ship  lay  on  the  sand  beyond 
the  roof.  It  was  a #2  General  Pro- 
ducts hull:  a cylinder  three  hundred 
feet  long  and  twenty  feet  through, 
pointed  at  both  ends  and  with  a 
slight  wasp-waist  constriction  near 
the  tail.  For  some  reason  it  was 
lying  on  its  side,  with  the  landing 
shocks  still  folded  in  at  the  tail. 

Ever  notice  how  all  ships  have 
begun  to  look  the  same?  A good 
ninety-five  percent  of  today’s  space- 
crafts are  built  around  one  of  the 
four  General  Products  hulls.  It’s 
easier  and  safer  to  build  that  way, 
but  somehow  all  ships  end  as  they 
began:  mass-produced  look-alikes. 

The  hulls  are  delivered  fully 
transparent,  and  you  use  paint  where 
you  feel  like  it.  Most  of  this  par- 
ticular hull  had  been  left  transpar- 
ent. Only  the  nose  had  been  painted, 
around  the  lifesystem.  There  was  no 
major  reaction  drive.  A series  of 


NEUTRON  STAR 


9 


<4 


• • 


10 


retractable  attitude  jets  had  been 
mounted  in  the  sides,  and  the  hull 
was  pierced  with  smaller  holes, 
square  and  round  — for  observation- 
al instruments.  I could  see  them 
gleaming  through  the  hull. 

The  puppeteer  was  moving" toward 
the  nose,  but  something  made 
me  turn  toward  the  stern  for  a 
closer  look  at  the  landing  shocks. 

They  were  bent.  Behind  the 
curved,  transparent  hull  panels,  some 
tremendous  pressure  had  forced  the 
metal  to  flow  like  warm  wax,  back 
and  into  the  pointed  stern. 

“What  did  this?”  I asked. 

“We  do  not  know.  We  wish  stren- 
uously to  find  out.” 

“W^at  do  you  mean?” 

“Have  you  heard  of  the  neutrbn 
star  BVS-1?” 

I had  to  think  a moment.  “First 
neutron  star  ever  found,  and  so  far 
the  only.  Someone  located  it  two 
years  ago  by  stellar  displacement.” 
“BVS-1  was  found  by  the  Institute 
of  Knowledge  on  Jinx.  We  learned 
through  a go-between  that  the  In- 
stitute wished  to  explore  the  star. 
They  needed  a ship  to  do  it.  They 
had  not  yet  sufficient  money.  We 
offered  to  supply  them  with  a ship’s 
hull,  with  the  usual  guarantees,  if 
they  would  turn  over  to  us  all  data 
they  acquired  through  using  our 
ship.” 

“Sounds  fair  enough.”  I didn’t 
ask  why  they  hadn’t  done  their 
own  exploring.  Like  most  sentient 
vegetarians,  puppeteers  find  descre- 
tion  to  be  the  only  part  of  valor. 

‘Two  humans  named  Peter  Lask- 
in  and  Sonya  Laskin  wished  to  use 


the  ship.  They  intended  to  oome 
within  one  mile  of  the  surface  in  a 
hyperbolic  orbit.  At  some  point  dur- 
ing their  trip,  an  unknown  force  ap- 
parently reached  through  the  hull 
to  do  this  to  the  landing  shocks. 
The  unknown  force  also  seems  to 
have  killed  the  pilots.” 

“But  that’s  impossible.  Isn’t  it?” 

“You  see  the  pK)int.  Come  with 
me.”  The  puppeteer  trotted  toward 
the  bow. 

I saw  the  point,  all  right.  Nothing, 
but  nothing  can  get  through  a Gen- 
eral Products  hull.  No  kind  of  elec- 
tromagnetic energy  except  'visible 
light.  No  kind  of  matter,  from  the 
smallest  subatomic  particle  to  the 
fastest  meteor.  That’s  what  the  com- 
pany’s advertisements  claim,  and  the 
guarantee  backs  theni  up.  I’ve  never 
doubted  it,  and  I’ve  never  heard 
of  a General  Products  hull  being 
damaged  by  a weapon  or  by  anything 
else. 

On  the  other  hand,  a General 
Products  hull  is  as  ugly  as  it  is  func- 
tional. The  puppeteer-owned  com- 
pany could  be  badly  hurt  if  it  got 
around  that  something  could  get 
through  a company  hull.  But  I didn’t 
see  where  I came  in. 

We  rode  an  escalladder  into  the 
nose. 

The  lifesystem  was  in  two  com- 
partments/ Here  the  Laskins  had 
used  heat-reflective  paint.  In  the  con- 
ical control  cabin  the  hull  had  been 
divided  into  windows.  The  relaxa- 
tion room  behind  it  was  a window- 
less  reflective  silver.  .From  the  back 
wall  of  the  relaxation  room  an  access 
tube  ran  aft,  opening  on  various  in- 
struments and  the  hyperdrive  motors. 


There  were  two  acceleration 
couches  in  the  control  cabin.  Both 
had  been  torn  loose  from  their 
mountings  and  wadded  into  the  nose 
like  so  much  tissue  paper,  crushing 
the  instrument  panel.  The  backs  of 
the  crumpled  couches  were  splashed 
with  rust  brown.  Flecks  of  the  same 
color  were  all  over  everything,  the 
walls,  the  windows,  the  viewscreens. 
It  was  as  if  something  had  hit  the 
couches  from  behind:  something  like 
a dozen  paint-filled  toy  balloons, 
striking  with  tremendous  force. 

“That’s  blood,”  I said. 

“That  is  correct.  Human  circula- 
tory fluid.” 

II 

wenty-four  hours  to  fall. 

I spent  most  of  the  first  twelve 
hours  in  the  relaxation  room,  trying 
to  read.  Nothing  significant  was 
happening,  except  that  a few  times 
I saw  the  phenomenon  Sonya  Laskin 
had  mentioned  in  her  last  report. 
When  a star  went  directly  behind  the 
invisible  BVS-1,  a halo  formed.  BVS- 
1 was  heavy  enough  to  bend  light 
around  it,  displacing  most  stars  to 
the  sides;  but  when  a star  went  di- 
rectly behind  the  neutron  star,  its 
light  was  displaced  to  all  sides  at 
once.  Result:  a tiny  circle  which 
flashed  once  and  was  gone  almost 
before  the  eye  could  catch  it. 

I’d  known  next  to  nothing  about 
neutron  stars  the  day  the  puppeteer 
picked  me  up.  Now  I was  an  expert. 
But  I still  had  no  idea  what  was 
waiting  for  me  when  I got  down 
there. 

All  the  matter  you’re  ever  likely 

IP 


12 


to  meet  will  be  normal  matter,  com- 
posed of  a nucleus  of  protons  and 
neuitrons  sunrounded  by  electrons  in 
quantum  energy  states.  In  the  heart 
of  any  star  there  is  a second  kind 
of  matter:  for  there,  the  tremendous 
pressure  is  enough  to  smash  the  elec- 
tron shells.  The  result  is  degenerate 
matter:  nuclei  forced  together  by 
pressure  and  gravity,  but  held  apart 
by  the  mutual  repulsion  of  the  more 
or  less  continuous  electron  ‘gas’ 
around  them.  The  right  circum- 
stances may  create  a third  type  of 
matter. 

Given:  a burnt-out  white  dwarf 
with  a mass  greater  than  1.44  times 
the  mass  of  the  Sun  — Chandrasek- 
har’s Limit,  named  for  an  Indian- 
American  astronomer  of  the  nine- 
teen hundreds.  In  such  a mass  the 
electron  pressure  alone  would  not 
be  able  to  hold  the  electrons  back 
from  the  nuclei.  Electrons  would  be 
forced  against  protons  — to  make 
neutrons.  In  one  blazing  explosion 
most  of  the  star  would  change  from 
a compressed  mass  of  degenerate 
matter  to  a closely  packed  lump  of 
neutrons:  neutronium,  theoretically 
the  densest  matter  possible  in  this 
universe.  Most  of  the  remaining 
normal  and  degenerate  matter  would 
be  blown  away  by  the  liberated  heat. 

For  two  weeks  the  star  would  give 
off  X rays,  as  its  core  temperature 
dropped  from  five  billion  degrees 
Kelvin  to  five  hundred  million.  After 
that  it  would  be  a light-emitting 
body  perhaps  ten  to  twelve  miles 
across:  the  next  best  thiqg  to  in- 
visible. It  was  not  strange  that  BVS- 
1 was  the  first  neutron  star  ever 
found. 


Neither  is  it  strange  that  the  In- 
stitute of  Knowledge  on  Jinx  would 
have  spent  a good  deal  of  time  and 
trouble  looking.  Until  BVS-1  was 
found,  neutronium  and  neutron  stars 
were  only  theories.  The  examina- 
tion of  an  actual  neutron  star  could 
be  of  tremendous  importance.  Neu- 
tron stars  could  give  us  the  key  to 
true  gravity  control. 

Mass  of  BVS-1:  1.3  times  the 
mass  of  Sol,  approximately. 

Diameter  of  BVS-1  (estimated): 
eleven  miles  of  neutronium,  covered 
by  half  a mile  of  degenerate  matter, 
covered  by  maybe  twelve  feet  of  or- 
dinary matter. 

Escape  velocity:  130,000  mps,  ap- 
proximately. 

Nothing  else  was  known  of  the 
tiny  black  star  until  the  Laskins  went 
in  to  look.  Now  the  Institute  knew 
one  thing  more.  The  star’s  spin. 

44  4 mass  that  large  can  distort 
space  by  its  rotation,”  said 
the  puppeteer.  “The  Institute  ship’s 
projected  hyperbola  was  twisted 
across  itself  in  such  a way  that  we 
can  deduce  the  star’s  period  of  ro- 
tation to  be  two  minutes,  twenty- 
seven  seconds.** 

The  bar  was  somewhere  in  the 
General  Products  building.  I don’t 
know  just  where,  and  with  the  trans- 
fer booths  it  doesn’t  matter.  I kept 
staring  at  the  puppeteer  bartender. 
Naturally  only  a puppeteer  would  be 
served  by  a puppeteer  bartender, 
since  any  biped  would  resent  know- 
ing that  somebody  made  his  drink 
with  his  mouth.  I had  already  de- 
cided to  get  dinner  somewhere  else. 

“I  see  your  problem,”  I said. 


NEUTRON  STAR 


13 


“Your  sales  will  suffer  if  it  gets  out 
that  something  can  reach  through 
one  of  your  hulls  and  smash  a crew 
to  bloody  smears.  But  where  do  I 
fit  in?” 

“We  wish  to  repeat  the  experiment 
of  Sonya  Laskin  and  Peter  Laskin. 
We  must  find  — ” 

“With  me?” 

“Yes.  We  must  find  out  what  it 
is  that  our  hulls  cannot  stop.  Na- 
tuarlly  you  may  — ” 

“But  I won’t.” 

“We  are  prepared  to  offer  one 
million  stars.” 

“I  was  tempted,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  “Forget  it.” 

“Naturally  you  will  be  allowed 
to  build  your  own  ship,  starting  with 
a #2  General  Products  hull.” 

“Thanks,  but  I’d  like  to  go  on 
living.” 

“You  would  dislike  being  confin- 
ed. I find  that  We  Made  It  has  re- 
established the  debtor’s  prison.  If 
General  Products  made  public  your 
accounts  . . .” 

“Now,  just  a — ” 

“You  owe  money  in  the  close  or- 
der of  five  hundred  thousand  stars. 
We  will  pay  your  creditors  before 
you  leave.  If  you  return  — ” I had 
to  admire  the  creature’s  honesty  in 
not  saying  when  — “we  will  pay  you 
the  remainder.  You  may  be  asked 
to  speak  to  news  commentators  con- 
cerning the  voyage,  in  which  case 
there  will  be  more  stars.” 

“You  say  I can  build  my  own 
ship?” 

“Naturally.  This  is  not  a voyage 
of  exploration.  We  want  you  to  re- 
turn safely.” 

“It’s  a deal,”  I said. 


After  all,  the  puppeteer  had  tried 
to  blackmail  me.  What  happened 
next  would  be  its  own  fault. 

They  built  my  ship  in  two  weeks 
flat.  They  started  with  a #2 
General  Products  hull,  just  like  the 
one  around  the  Institute  of  Knowl- 
edge ship,  and  the  lifesystem  was 
practically  a duplicate  of  the  Las- 
kins’,  but  there  the  resemblance 
ended.  There  were  no  instruments  to 
observe  neutron  stars.' Instead,  there 
was  a fusion  motor  big  enough  for 
a Jinx  warliner.  In  my  ship,  which 
I now  called  Skydiver,  the  drive 
would  produce  thirty  gees  at  the 
safety  limit.  There  was  a laser  can- 
non big  enough  to  punch  a hole 
through  We  Made  It’s  moon.  The 
puppeteer  wanted  me  to  feel  safe, 
and  now  I did,  for  I could  fight  and 
I could  run.  Especially  I could  run. 

I heard  the  Laskins’  last  broad- 
cast through  half  a dozen  times. 
Their  unnamed  ship  had  dropped 
out  of  hyperspace  a million  miles 
above  BVS-1.  Gravity  warp  would 
have  prevented  their  getting  closer 
in  hyperspace.  While  her  husband 
was  crawling  through  the  access  tube 
for  an  instrument  check,  Sonya  Las- 
kin had  called  the  Institute  of  Knowl- 
edge. “.  . . we  can’t  see  it  yet,  not 
with  the  naked  eye.  But  we  can  see 
where  it  is.  Every  time  some  star  or 
other  goes  behind  it,  there’s  a little 
ring  of  light.  Just  a minute.  Peter’s 
ready  to  use  the  telescope  . . .” 

Then  the  star’s  mass  had  cut  the 
hyperspacial  link.  It  was  expected, 
and  nobody  had  worried  — then. 
Later,  the  same  effect  must  have 
stopped  them  from  escaping  what- 


14 


IF 


ever  attacked  them,  into  hyperspace. 
When  would-be  rescuers  found 
the  ship,  only  the  radar  and  the 
cameras  were  still  running.  They 
didn’t  tell  us  much.  There  had  been 
no  camera  in  the  cabin.  But  the 
forward  camera  gave  us,  for  one 
instant,  a speed-blurred  view  of  the 
neutron  star.  It  was  a featureless 
disc  the  orange  color  of  perfect  bar- 
becue coals,  if  you  know  someone 
who  can  afford  to  burn  wood.  This 
object  had  been  a neutron  star  a long 
time. 

“There’ll  be  no  need  to  paint  the 
ship,”  I told  the  president. 

“You  should  not  make  such  a trip 
with  the  walls  transparent.  You 
would  go  insane.” 

“I’m  no  flatlander.  The  mind- 
wrenching  sight  of  naked  space  fills 
me  with  mild,  but  waning  interest. 
I want  to  know  nothing’s  sneaking 
up  behind  me.” 

The  day  before  I left,  I. sat  alone 
in  the  General  Products  bar 
letting  the  puppeteer  bartender  make 
me  drinks  with  his  mouth.  He  did 
it  well.  Puppeteers  were  scattered 
around  the  bar  in  twos  and  threes, 
with  a couple  of  men  for  variety; 
but  the 'drinking  hour  had  not  yet 
arrived.  The  place  felt  empty. 

I was  pleased  with  myself.  My 
debts  were  all  paid,  not  that  that 
would  matter  where  I was  going.  I 
would  leave  with  not  a mini-credit 
to  my  name;  with  nothing  but  the 
ship  . . . 

All  told,  I was  well  out  of  a sticky 
situation.  I hoped  I’d  like  being  a 
rich  exile. 

I jumped  when  the  newcomer  sat 


down  across  from  me.  He  was  a 
foreigner,  a middle-aged  man  wear- 
ing an  expensive  night-black  busi- 
ness suit  and  a snow-white  asymme- 
tric beard.  I let  my  face  freeze  and 
started  to  get  up. 

“Sit  down,  Mr.  Shaeffer.” 

“Why?” 

He  told  me  by  showing  me  a blue 
disc.  An  Earth-government  ident.  I 
looked  it  over  to  show  I was  alert, 
not  because  I’d  know  an  ersatz  from 
the  real  thing. 

“My  name  is  Sigmund  Ausfaller,” 
said  the  government  man.  “I  wish 
to  say  a few  words  concerning  your 
assignment  on  behalf  of  General  Pro- 
ducts.” 

I nodded,  not  saying  anything. 

“A  record  of  your  verbal  contract 
was  sent  to  us  as  a matter  of  course. 
I noticed  some  peculiar  things  about 
it.  Mr.  Shaeffer,  will  you  really  take 
such  a risk  for  only  five  hundred 
thousand  stars?” 

“I’m  getting  twice  that.” 

“But  you  only  keep  half  of  it. 
The  rest  goes  to  pay  debts.  Then 
there  are  taxes.  But  never  mind. 
What  occurred  to  me  was  that  a 
spaceship  is  a spaceship,  and  yours  is 
very  well  armed  and  has  powerful 
legs.  An  admirable  fighting  ship,  if 
you  were  moved  to  sell  it.” 

“But  it  isn’t  mine.” 

“There  are  those  who  would  not 
ask.  On  Canyon,  for  example,  or  the 
Isolationist  party  of  Wonderland.” 

I said  nothing. 

“Or,  you  might  be  planning  a ca- 
reer of  piracy.  A risky  business,  pi- 
racy, and  I don’t  take  the  notion 
seriously.” 

I hadn’t  even  thought  about  pi- 


NEUTRON  STAR 


15 


racy.  But  I’d  have  to  give  up  on 
Wonderland  . . . 

“What  I would  like  to  say  is  this, 
Mr.  Shaeffer.  A single  entrepreneur, 
if  he  were  'sufficiently  dishonest, 
could  do  terrible  damage  to  the  repu- 
tation of  all  human  beings  every- 
where. Most  species  find  it  neces- 
sary to  police  the  ethics  of  their  own 
memibers,  and  we  are  no  exception. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  you  might 
not  take  your  ship  to  the  neutron 
star  at  all;  that  you  would  take  it 
elsewhere  and  sell  it.  The  puppeteers 
do  not  make  invulnerable  war  ves- 
sels. They  are  pacifists.  Your  Sky- 
diver  is  unique. 

“Hence  I have  asked  General  Pro- 
ducts to  allow  me  to  install  a remote 
control  bomb  in  the  Skydiver.  Since 
it  is  inside  the  hull,  the  hull  cannot 
protect  you.  I had  it  installed  this 
afternoon. 

“Now,  notice!  If  you  have  not  re- 
ported within  a week  I will  set  off 
the  bomb.  There  are  several  worlds 
within  a week’s  hyperspace  flight  of 
here,  but  all  recognize  the  dominion 
of  Earth.  If  you  flee,  you  must  leave 
your  ship  within  a week,  so  I hardly 
think  you  will  land  on  a nonhabitable 
world.  Clear?” 

“Clear.” 

“If  I am  wrong,  you  may  take  a 
lie-detector  test  and  prove  it.  Then 
you  may  punch  me  in  the  nose,  and 
I will  apologize  handsomely.” 

L shook  my  head.  He  stood  up, 
bowed  and  leh  me  sitting  there  cold 
sober. 

Four  films  had  been  taken  from 
the  Laskins’  cameras.  In  the 
time  left  to  me,  I ran  through  them 


several  times,  without  seeing  any- 
thing out  of  the  way.  If  the  ship  had 
run  through  a gas  cloud,  the  impact 
could  have  killed  the  Laskins.  At 
perihelion  they  were  moving  at  bet- 
ter than  half  the  speed  of  light.  But 
there  would  have  been  friction,  and 
I saw  no  sign  of  heating  in  the 
films.  If  something  alive  had  at- 
tacked them,  the  beast  was  invisible 
to  radar  and  to  an  enormous  range 
of  light  frequencies.  If  the  attitude 
jets  had  fired  accidentally  — I was 
clutching  at  straws  — the  light  show- 
ed on  none  of  the  films. 

There  would  be  savage  magnetic 
forces  near  BVS-1,  but  that  couldn’t 
have  done  any  damage.  No  such 
force  could  penetrate  a General  Pro- 
ducts hull.  Neither  could  heat,  ex- 
cept in  special  bands  of  radiated 
light,  bands  visible  to  at  least  one  of 
the  puppeteers’  alien  customers.  I 
hold  adverse  opinions  on  the  Gen- 
eral Products  hull,  but  they  all  con- 
cern the  dull  anonymity  of  the  de- 
sign. Or  maybe  I resent  the  fact  that 
General  Products  holds  a near-mon- 
opoly on  spacecraft  hulls  and  isn’t 
owned  by  human  beings.  But  if  I’d 
had  to  trust  my  life  to,  say,  the  Sin- 
clair yacht  I’d  seen  in  the  drugstore. 
I’d  have  chosen  jail. 

Jail  was  one  of  my  three  choices. 
But  I’d  be  there  for  life.  Ausfaller 
would  see  to  that. 

Or  I could  run  for  it  in  the  Sky- 
diver.  But  no  world  within  reach 
would  have  me,  that  is.  Of  course, 
if  I could  find  an  undiscovered 
Earthlike  world  within  a week  of 
We  Made  It  . . . 

Fat  chance.  I prefered  BVS-1  to 
that  any  day. 


16 


IF 


Ill 


1 thought  that  flashing  circle  of 
light  was  getting  bigger,  but  it 
flashed  so  seldom  I couldn’t  be  sure. 
BVS-1  wouldn’t  show  even  in  my 
telescope.  I gave  that  up  and  settled 
for  just  waiting. 

Waiting,  I remembered  a long-ago 
summer  I spent  on  Jinx.  There  were 
days  when,  unable  to  go  outside  be- 
cause a derth  of  clouds  had  spread 
the  land  with  raw  blue-white  sun- 
light, we  amused  ourselves  by  filling 
party  balloons  with  tap  water  and 
drppping  them  on  the  sidewalk  from 
three  stories  up.  They  made  lovely 
splash  patterns  — which  dried  out 
too  fast.  So  we  put  a little  ink  in 
each  balloon  before  fflling  it.  Then 
the  patterns  stayed. 

Sonya  Laskin  had  been  in  her 
chair  when  the  chairs  collapsed. 
Blood  samples  showed  that  it  was 
Peter,  who  had  struck  them  from 
behind,  like  a water  balloon  dropped 
from  a great  height. 

What  could  get  through  a Gen- 
eral Products  hull? 

Ten  hours  to  fall. 

I unfastened  the  safety  net  and 
went  for  an  inspection  tour.  The 
access  tunnel  was  three  feet  wide, 
just  right  to  push  through  in  free 
fall.  Below  me  was  the  length  of 
the  fusion  tube;  to  the  left,  the  laser 
cannon;  to  the  right,  a set  of  curved 
side  tubes  leading  to  inspection 
points  for  the  gyros,  the  batteries 
and  generator,  the  air  plant,  the 
hyperspace  shunt  motors.  All  was  in 
order  — except  me.  I was  clumsy. 
My  jumps  were  always  too  short  or 
too  long.  There  was  no  room  to  turn 


at  the  stem  end,  so  I bad  to  back 
fifty  feet  to  a side  tube. 

Six  hours  to  go,  and  still  I 
couldn’t  find  the  neutron  star.  Prob- 
ably I would  see  it  only  for  an  in- 
stant, passing  at  better  than  half  the 
speed  of  light.  Already  my  ^ed 
must  be  enormous. 

Were  the  stars  turning  blue? 

Two  hours  to  go,  I was  sure  they 
were  turning  blue.  Was  my  speed 
that  high?  Then  the  stars  behind 
should  be  red.  Machinery  blocked 
the  view  behind  me,  so  I used  the 
gyros.  The  ship  turned  with  peculiar 
sluggishness.  And  the  stars  behind 
were  blue,  not  red.  All  around  me 
were  blue-white  stars. 

Imagine  light  falling  into  a savage- 
ly steep  gravitational  well.  It  won’t 
accelerate.  Light  can’t  move  faster 
than  light.  But  it  can  gain  in  energy, 
in  frequency.  The  light  was  falling 
on  me,  harder  and  harder  as  I drop- 
ped. 

I told  the  dictaphone  about  it. 
That  dictaphone  was  probably  the 
best  protected  item  on  the  ship.  I 
had  already  decided  to  earn  my 
money  by  using  it,  just  as  if  I expect- 
ed to  collect.  Privately  I wondered 
just  how  intense  the  light  would 
get. 

Skydiver  had  drifted  back  to  ver- 
tical, with  its  axis  through  the  neu- 
tron star,  but  now  it  faced  outward. 
I’d  thought  I had  the  ship  stopped 
horizontally.  More  clumsiness.  I used 
the  gyros.  Again  the  ship  moved 
mushily,  until  it  was  halfway  through 
the  swing.  Then  it  semed  to  fall  au- 
tomatically into  place.  It  was  as  if 
the  Skydiver  preferred  to  have  its 
axis  through  the  neutron  star. 


NEUTRON  STAR 


17 


I didn’t  like  that  in  the  least. 
I tried  the  maneuver  again,  and 
again  the  Skydiver  fought  back.  But 
this  time  there  was  something  else. 
Something  was  pulling  at  me. 

So  I unfastened  my  safety  net 
and  fell  headfirst  into  the  nose. 

The  pull  was  light,  about  a tenth 
of  a gee.  It  felt  more  like  sink- 
ing through  honey  than  falling.  I 
climbed  back  into  my  chair,  tied 
myself  in  with  the  net,  now  hang- 
ing face  down,  turned  on  the  dicta- 
phone. I told  my  story  in  such  nit- 
picking detail  that  my  hypothetical 
listeners  could  not  but  doubt  my 
hypothetical  sanity.  “I  think  this  is 
what  happened  to  the  Laskins,”  I 
finished.  “If  the  pull  increases.  I’ll 
call  back.” 

Think?  I never  doubted  it.  This 
strange,  gentle  pull  was  inexplicable. 
Something  inexplicable  had  killed 
Peter  and  Sonya  Laskin.  Q.E.D. 

Around  the  point  where  the  neu- 
tron star  must  be,  the  stars  were 
like  smeared  dots  of  oilpaint,  smear- 
ed radially.  They  glared  with  an 
angry,  painful  light.  I hung  face  down 
in  the  net  and  tried  to  think. 

It  was  an  hour  before  I was  sure. 
The  pull  was  increasing.  And  I still 
had  an  hour  to  fall. 

Something  was  pulling  on  me,  but 
not  on  the  ship. 

^ No,  that  was  nonsense.  What 
could  reach  out  to  me  through  a 
General  Products  hull?  It  must  be 
the  other  way  around.  Something 
was  pushing  on  the  ship,  pusthing  it 
off  course. 

If  it  got  worse  I could  use  the 
drive  to  compensate.  Meanwhile,  the 


ship  was  being  pushed  away  from 
BVS-1,  which  was  fine  by  me. 

But  if  I was  wrong,  if  the  ship 
were  not  somehow  being  pushed 
away  from  BVS-1,  the  rocket  mo- 
tor would  send  the  Skydiver  crash- 
ing into  eleven  miles  of  neutronium. 

And  why  wasn’t  the  rocket  al- 
ready firing?  If  the  ship  was  being 
pusihed  off  course,  the  autopilot 
should  be  fighting  back.  The  accele- 
rometer was  in  good  order.  It  had 
looked  fine  when  I made  my  in- 
spection tour  down  the  access  tube. 

Could  something  be  pushing  on 
the  ship  and  on  the  accelerometer, 
but  not  on  me? 

It  came  down  to  the  same  im- 
possibility. Something  that  could 
reach  through  a General  Products 
hull. 

To  hell  with  theory,  said  I to  my- 
self, said  I.  I’m  getting  out  of  here. 
To  the  dictaphone  I said,  “The  pull 
has  increased  dangerously.  I’m  go- 
ing to  try  to  alter  my  orbit.” 

Of  course,  once  I turned  the  shin 
outward  and  used  the  rocket.  I’d  be 
adding  my  own  acceleration  to  the 
X force.  It  would  be  a strain,  but  I 
could  stand  it  for  awhile.  If  I came 
within  a mile  of  BVS-1,  I’d  end  like 
Sonya  Laskin. 

She  must  have  waited  face  down 
in  a net  like  mine,  waited  without  a 
drive  unit,  waited  while  the  pressure 
rose  and  the  net  cut  into  her  flesh, 
waited  until  the  net  snapped  and 
dropped  her  into  the  nose,  to  lie 
crushed  and  broken  until  the  X 
force  tore  the  very  chairs  loose  and 
dropped  them  on  her. 

I hit  the  gyros. 

The  gyros  weren’t  strong  enough 


18 


IF 


to  turn  me.  I tried  it  three  times. 
Bach  time  the  ship  rotated  about 
fifty  degrees  and  hung  there,  mo- 
tionless, while  the  whine  of  the  gyros 
went  up  and  up.  Released,  the  ship 
immediately  swung  back  to  position. 
I was  nose  down  to  the  neutron  star, 
and  I was  going  to  stay  that  way. 

Half  an  hour  to  fall,  and  the  X 
force  was  over  a gee.  My  sin- 
uses were  in  agony.  My  eyes  were 
ripe  and  ready  to  fall  out.  I don’t 
know  if  I could  bave  stood  a ciga- 
rette, but  I didn’t  get  tihe  chance. 
My  pack  of  Fortunados  had  fallen 
out  of  my  pocket,  when  I dropped 
into  the  nose.  There  it  was,  four 
feet  beyond  my  fingers,  proof  that 
the  X force  acted  on  other  objects 
besides  me.  Fascinating. 

I couldn’t  take  any  more.  If  it 
dropped  me  shrieking  into  the  neu- 
tron star.  I had  to  use  the  drive.  And 
I did.  I ran  the  thrust  up  until  I was 
approximately  in  free  fall.  The  blood 
which  had  pooled  in  my  extremities 
went  back  where  it  belonged.  The 
gee  dial  registered  one  point  two  gee. 
I cursed  it  for  a lying  robot. 

The  soft-pack  was  bobbing  around 
in  the  nose,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  a little  extra  nudge  on  the  throt- 
tle would  bring  it  to  me.  I tried 
it.  The  pack  drifted  toward  me,  and 
I reached,  and  like  a sentient  thing 
it  speeded  up  to  avoid  my  clutching 
hand.  I snatched  at  it  again  as  it 
went  past  my  ear,  but  again  it  was 
moving  too  fast.  That  pack  was 
going  at  a hell  of  a clip,  considering 
that  here  I was,  practically  in  free 
fall.  It  dropped  through  the  door  to 
the  relaxation  room,  still  picking  up 


NEUTRON  STAR 


19 


speed,  blurred  and  vanished  as  it  en- 
tered the  access  tube.  Seconds  later 
I heard  a solid  Thump. 

But  that  was  crazy-  Already  the 
X force  was  pulling  blood  into  my 
face.  I pulled  my  lighter  out,  held 
it  at  arm’s  length  and  let  go.  It  fell 
gently  into  the  nose.  But  the  pack 
of  Fortunados  had  hit  like  I’d 
dropped  it  from  a building. 

Well. 

I nudged  the  throttle  again.  The 
mutter  of  fusing  hydrogen  reminded 
me  that  if  I tried  to  keep  this  up  all 
the  way,  I might  well  put  the  General 
Products  hull  to  its  toughest  test 
yet:  smashing  it  into  a neutron  star 
at  half  lightspeed.  I could  see  it  now: 
a transparent  hull  containing  only 
a few  cubic  inches  of  dwarf  star 
matter  wedged  into  the  tip  of  the 
nose. 

At  one  point  four  gee,  according 
to  that  lying  gee  dial,  the  lighter 
came  loose  and  drifted  toward  me. 
I let  it  go.  It  was  clearly  falling 
when  it  reached  the  doorway.  I 
pulled  the  throttle  back.  The  loss 
of  power  jerked  me  violently  for- 
ward, but  I kept  my  face  turned. 
The  lighter  slowed  and  hesitated  at 
the  entrance  to  the  access  tube.  De- 
cided to  go  through.  I cocked  my 
ears  for  the  sound,  then  jumped 
as  the  whole  ship  rang  like  a gong. 

And  the  accelerometer  was  right 
at  the  ship’s  center  of  mass.  Other- 
wise the  ship’s  mass  would  have 
thrown  the  needle  off.  The  puppe- 
teers were  fiends  for  ten-decimal- 
point  accuracy. 

I favored  the  dictaphone  with  a 
few  fast  comments,  then  got  to  work 
reprogramming  the  autopilot.  Luck- 


ily whait  I wanted  was  simple.  The 
X force  was  but  an  X force  to  me, 
but  now  I knew  how  it  behaved.  I 
might  actually  live  through  this. 

The  stars  were  fiercely  blue, 
warped  to  streaked  lines  near 
that  special  point.  I thought  I could 
see  it  now,  very  small  and  dim 
and  red;  but  it  might  have  been 
imagination.  In  twenty  minutes.  I’d 
be  rounding  the  neutron  star.  The 
drive  grumbled  behind  me.  In  effec- 
tive free  fall,  I unfastened  the  safety 
net  and  pushed  myself  out  of  the 
chair. 

A gentle  push  aft  — and  ghostly 
hands  grasped  my  legs. . Ten  pounds 
of  weight  hung  by  my  fingers  from 
the  back  of  the  chair.  The  pressure 
should  drop  fast.  I’d  programmed 
the  autopilot  to  reduce  the  thrust 
from  two  gees  to  zero  during  the 
next  two  minutes.  All  I had  to  do  was 
be  at  the  center  of  mass,  in  the 
access  tube,  when  the  thrust  went 
to  zero. 

Something  gripped  the  ship 
through  a General  Products  hull.  A 
psychokinetic  life  form  stranded  on 
a sun  twelve  miles  in  diameter?  But 
how  could  anything  alive  stand  such 
gravity? 

Something  might  be  stranded  in 
orbit.  There  is  life  in  space:  out- 
siders and  sailseeds  and  maybe  oth- 
ers we  haven’t  found  yet.  For  all  I 
knew  or  cared,  BVS-1  itself  might 
be  alive.  It  didn’t  matter.  I knew 
what  the  X force  was  trying  to  do. 
It  was  trying  to  pull  the  ship  apart. 

There  was  no  pull  on  my  fingers. 
I pushed  aft  and  landed  on  the  back 
wall,  on  bent  legs.  I knelt  over  the 


20 


IF 


door,  looking  aft/down.  When  free 
fall  came,  I pulled  myself  through 
and  was  in  the  relaxation  room  look- 
ing down/forward  into  the  nose. 

Gravity  was  changing  faster  than  I 
liked.  The  X force  was  growing  as 
zero  hour  approached,  while  the 
compensating  rocket  thrust  dropped. 
The  X force  tended  to  pull  the  ship 
apart;  it  was  two  gee  forward  at  the 
nose,  two  gee  backward  at  the  tail 
and  diminished  to  zero  at  the  center 
of  mass.  Or  so  I hoped.  The  pack 
and  lighter  had  behaved  as  if  the 
force  pulling  them  had  increased 
for  every  inch  they  moved  stern- 
ward. 

The  dictaphone  was  fifty  feet  be- 
low, utterly  unreachable.  If  I had 
anything  more  to  say  to  General 
Products.  I’d  have  to  say  it  in  per- 
son. Maybe  I’d  get  the  chance.  Be- 
cause I knew  what  force  was  trying 
to  tear  the  ship  apart. 

It  was  the  tide. 

The  motor  was  off,  and  I was  at 
the  ship’s  midpoint.  My  spread- 
eagled  position  was  getting  uncom- 
fortable. It  was  four  minutes  to 
perihelion. 

Something  creaked  in  the  cabin 
below  me.  I , couldn’t  see  what  it 
was,  but  I could  clearly  see  a red 
point  glaring  among  blue  radial  lines, 
like  a lantern  at  the  bottom  of  a well. 
To  the  sides,  between  the  fusion 
tube  and  the  tanks  and  other  equip- 
ment, the  blue  stars  glared  at  me 
with  a light  that  was  almost  violet. 

I was  afraid  to  look  too  long.  I 
actually  thought  they  might  blind 
me. 

There  must  have  been  hundreds  of 


gravities  in  the  cabin.  I could  even 
feel  the  pressure  change.  The  air 
was  thin  at  this  height,  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  the  control  room. 

And  now,  almost  suddenly,  the  red 
dot  was  more  than  a dot.  My  time 
was  up.  A red  disc  leapt  up  at  me; 
the  ship  swung  around  me;  and  I 
gasped  and  shut  my  eyes  tight.  Gi- 
ants’ hands  gripped  my  arms  and 
legs  and  head,  gently  but  with  great 
fimmess,  and  tried  to  pull  me  in 
two.  In  that  moment  it  came  to 
me  that  Peter  Laskin  had  died  like 
this.  He’d  made  the  same  guesses  I 
had,  and  he’d  tried  to  hide  in  the 
access  tube.  But  he’d  slipped.  As  I 
was  slipping  . . . 

When  I got  my  eyes  open  the  red 
dot  was  shrinking  into  nothing. 

IV 

The  puppeteer  president  insisted 
I be  put  in  a hospital  for  ob- 
servation. I didn’t  fight  the  idea.  My 
face  and  bands  were  flaming  red, 
with  blisters  rising,  and  I ached  like 
I’d  been  beaten.  Rest  and  tender 
loving  care,  that’s  what  I wanted. 

I was  floating  between  a pair  of 
sleeping  plates,  hideously  uncomfort- 
able, when  the  nurse  came  to  an- 
nounce a visitor.  I knew  who  it  was 
from  her  peculiar  expression. 

“What  can  get  through  a General 
Products  hull?”  I asked  it. 

“I  hoped  you  would  tell  me.”  The 
president  rested  on  its  single  back 
leg,  holding  a stick  that  gave  off 
green,  incense-smelling  smoke. 

“And  so  I will.  Gravity.” 

“Do  not  play  with  me,  Beowulf 
Shaeffer.  This  matter  is  vital.” 


NEUTRON  STAR 


21 


“I’m  not  playing.  Does  your  world 
have  a moon?” 

“That  information  is  classified.” 
The  puppeteers  are  cowards.  No- 
body knows  where  they  come  from, 
and  nobody  is  likely  to  find  out. 

“Do  you  know  what  happens 
when  a moon  gets  too  close  to  its 
primary?” 

“It  falls  apart.” 

Why?” 

“I  do  not  know.” 

“Tides.” 

“What  is  a tide?” 

Oho,  said  I to  myself,  said  I. 
“I’m  going  to  try  to  tell  you.  The 
Earth’s  moon  is  almost  two  thou- 
sand miles  in  diameter  and  does  not 
rotate  with  respect  to  Earth.  I want 
you  to  pick  two  rocks  on  the  Moon, 
one  at  the  point  nearest  the  Earth, 
one  at  the  point  furthest  away.” 
“Very  well.” 

“Now,  isn’t  it  obvious  that  if 
those  rocks  were  left  to  themselves 
they’d  fall  away  from  each  other? 
They’re  in  two  different  orbits,  mind 
you,  concentric  orbits,  one  almost 
two  thousand  miles  outside  the  oth- 
er. Yet  those  rocks  are  forced  to 
move  at  the  same  orbital  speed.” 
“The  one  outside  is  moving  faster.” 
“Good  point.  So  there  is  a force 
trying  to  pull  the  Moon  apart.  Gravi- 
ty holds  it  together.  Bring  the  Moon 
close  enough  to  Earth,  and  those 
two  rocks  would  simply  float  away.” 
“I  see.  Then  this  tide  tried  to  pull 
your  ship  apart.  It  was  powerful 
enough  in  the  lifesystem  of  the  In- 
stitute ship  to  pull  the  acceleration 
chairs  out  of  their  mounts.” 

“And  to  crush  a human  being. 
Picture  it.  The  ship’s  nose  was  just 


seven  miles  from  the  center  of  BVS- 
1.  The  tail  was  three  hundred  feet 
fuiUher  out.  Left  to  themselves  they’d 
have  gone  in  completely  different 
orbits.  My  head  and  feet  tried  to 
do  the  same  thing,  when  I got  close 
enough.” 

“I  see.  Are  you  moulting?” 
“What?” 

“I  noticed  you  are  losing  your 
outer  integument  in  spots.” 

“Oh,  that,  I got  a bad  sunburn 
from  exposure  to  starlight.” 

Two  heads  stared  at  each  other 
for  an  eyeblink.  A shrug?  The  pup- 
peteer said,  “We  have  deposited  the 
remainder  of  your  pay  with  the 
Bank  of  We  M^e  It.  One  Sigmund 
Ausfailler,  human,  has  frozen  the 
account  until  your  taxes  are  com- 
puted.” “Figures.” 

“If  you  will  talk  to  reporters  now, 
explaining  what  happened  to  the  In- 
stitute ship,  we  will  pay  you  ten 
thousand  stars.  We  will  pay  cash  so 
that  you  may  use  it  immediately.  It 
is  urgent.  There  have  been  rumors.” 
“Bring  ’em  in.”  As  an  afterthought 
I added,  “I  can  also  tell  them  that 
your  world  is  moonless.  That  should 
be  good  for  a footnote  somewhere.” 
“I  do  not  understand.”  But  two 
long  necks  had  drawn  back,  and 
the  puppeteer  was  watching  me  like 
a pair  of  pythons. 

“You’d  know  what  a tide  wa?  if 
you  had  a moon.  You  couldn’t  avoid 
it.” 

“Would  you  be  interested  in  . . .” 
“.  . . a million  stars?  I’d  be  fas- 
cinated. I’ll  even  sign  a contract  if 
it  includes  what  we’re  hiding.  How 
do  you  like  being  blackmailed?” 

END 


22 


IF 


IF  • Short  Story 


Your 

Soldier  Unto  Deafli 

by  MICHAEL  WALKER 


They  were  Man's  greatest  heroes. 
They'd  won  a war  — but  now  what 
was  there  left  for  them  to  do? 


On  the  final  day  of  the  confliot 
Infantry  Commiander  Third 
Class  RB-1079AX,  soldier  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Man,  had  driven  a file  of 
heavy  infantry  out  of  western  high- 
lands to  meet  the  enemy  of  his  mas- 
ters. 

Rocket-fire  had  long  since  knock- 
ed out  his  command  vehicle,  and  for 
half  a day  he  had  fought  shoulder- 
to-shoulder  with  his  soldiers,  con- 
tinuously alert  to  the  dictates  of 
Over-Command  that  filled  his  head- 
set and  mechanically  relaying  them 
to  his  decimated  phalanx  in  an  un- 
inflected voice  that  had  grown  hoarse 
with  the  passage  of  time.  At  length. 


Over-Command  had  issued  orders  of 
termination  and  had  closed  down  its 
frequency,  leaving  him  trembling 
now  in  a sudden  shock  of  silence, 
a sticky  mace  swinging  in  his  hand. 
An  enemy  soldier-form  beside  him 
lowered  its  rifle,  relaxed  its  coils 
and  wriggled  away  through  the  freez- 
ing mud.  Around  him  in  the  twi- 
light, soldiers  turned  against  the 
death-scented  wind  and  straggled  to- 
ward their  recovery  zones. 

He  had  known  that  the  battle  on 
this  planet  could  not  last  much  long- 
er. The  end  was  a shock  only  to  his 
strained  body  — the  recent  trends  in 
the  battle  had  forewarned  his  care- 


23 


fuiUy  trained  mind.  There  had  been 
heavy  losses.  If  the  forces  of  Man 
had  sought  retribution,  the  battle 
might  have  lasted  another  day.  But 
the  war  had  never  been  vindictive  to 
the  extent  that  a satisfactory  position 
would  be  sacrificed  to  emotion. 
While  he  was  but  dimly  aware  of 
such  things  as  emotions  and  of  their 
roles  as  determininates  in  the  strategic 
decisions  of  Men,  he  had  suspected 
from  experience  that  the  end  was 
near. 

A little  dazed,  he  consulted  a map- 
board  incorporated  into  the 
sleeve  of  his  battle  armor  and  turned, 
stumbled  northward  through  the  in- 
terminable litter  of  bodies.  In  the 
offal  of  the  day-long  attrition  he  saw 
an  occasional  familiar  face.  For  some 
reason  he  faltered  and  paused  to  look 
into  one. 

RB-2442AY  lay  on  his  side,  the 
left  leg  below  the  knee  crushed  flat 
by  a tank.  A medic  hurried  by, 
halting  only  to  spray  the  breastplate 
of  the  fallen  soldier  with  fluorescent 
paint  — unsalvageable.  The  soldier, 
who  had  somehow  withstood  the 
shock  of  his  injury,  took  no  notice. 
His  pain-tightened  eyes  passed  over 
his  commander  without  recognition 
or  feeling.  RB-1079AX  watched  him 
for  a moment  more  and  touched  the 
butt  of  his  sidearm,  vaguely  wonder- 
ing if  the  dam  aged -soldier  might  not 
be  able  to  fight  again,  perhaps  with 
an  artificial  limb  — he  had  fought 
with  him  for  so  long.  But  the  splash 
of  paint  said  no,  and  the  commander 
moved  on. 

An  hour  later  he  had  collected 
the  tired  remnant  of  his  phalanx  in 


the  recovery  zone  and  had  submitted 
his  final  status  report  to  Over-Oom- 
mand,  where  Men  listened  calmly 
and  drew  their  plans  for  the  future. 
But  for  him  the  work  here  was 
done. 

Now  began  a time  of  waiting.  At 
first,  for  transportation.  Later,  for 
the  command  that  would  send  him 
to  another  battlefield  on  some  new 
world. 

Squatting  in  their  midst,  he  watch- 
ed the  survivors  quietly,  listening  to 
the  rattle  of  final  preparation  and 
the  cries  of  the  salvageable  wounded, 
punctuated  at  decreasing  intervals  by 
a muted  thunder  that  was  building 
in  the  west.  Eventually,  a formation 
of  ships  moved  over  the  plain,  slow- 
ing, and  in  the  deepening  night  his 
transport  slipi>ed  out  of  the  sky  and 
touched  down  a kilometer  away. 

He  marched  his  soldiers  across  the 
blasted  terrain  and  up  the  extend- 
ed ramps,  pausing  for  a moment  to 
see  all  of  his  command  aboard.  Over- 
head, moving  up  from  the  horizon,  a 
chain  of  bright  beads  stretched  itself 
across  the  sky,  passing  among  the 
stars.  The  beads  were  enemy  trans- 
ports following  on  the  same  orbital 
track.  As  they  crossed  the  zenith, 
each  flared  up  briefly  and  slowed  as 
it  broke  orbit  for  planet-fall  on  some 
battlefield  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  He  went  into  the  ship. 

Scattered  on  the  plain,  the  aban- 
doned wounded  let  their  eyes  fall 
beneath  patient,  hooded  lids  as  the 
transports  rose  and  mounted  on 
columns  of  fire. 

The  windows  of  the  small  office 
overlooked  a flat  sweep  of  des- 


24 


IF 


ert  that  stretched  uninterrupted  to 
a wall  of  hazy  mountains  that  edged 
the  horizon.  Nearby,  the  desert  was 
patterned  with  the  geometric  preci- 
sion of  maneuvering  soldiers.  On  the 
right  the  beginnings  of  a complex 
of  corrugated  aluminum  barracks 
were  visible. 

It  was  very  hot.  The  hum  of  air- 
conditioning  shut  out  the  noises  of 
the  base. 

Major  General  Blackwood  sat 
behind  a bare  desk,  silhouetted 
against  the  windows.  Across  the  desk 
a small,  balding  man  in  civilian  dress 
sat  stiffly  in  a straight-backed  chair, 
holding  a plastic  folder  in  his  lap. 
Between  them,  at  the  side  of  the 
desk,  a woman  leaned  forward 
anxiously  from  a leather-upholstered 
seat. 

“We  were  told  through  normal 
channels  that  the  wair  had  ended, 
Mr.  Chalmers,”  the  general  said.  “I 
don’t  quite  see  the  point  of  your 
visit.”  There  was  a note  of  hostility 
in  his  quiet  voice. 

Chalmers  coughed  and  looked 
toward  the  woman  apologetically. 
“Actually,  General,  I’m  here  for 
something  else.  Terra  Central  sent 
me  out  to  appraise  the  Empress  of 
certain  diplomatic  aspects  of  the 
peace  that  wfe  felt  were  too  delicate 
for  direct  broadcast.  She  suggested 
that  we  take  them  up  with  you, 
since  you’re  closer  to  the  problem, 
so  to  speak.”  He  looked  toward  the 
window  meaninigfully. 

General  Blackwood,  refusing  to 
interpret  his  glance,  leaned  forward 
slowly.  “Get  to  the  point.” 

“Well,  as  you  know,  the  peace  is 
not  decisive.  There  was  surrender  on 


neither  side.  We’ve  merely  reached 
a permanent  understanding.  In  the 
past  year,  the  war  became  so  vicious 
that  only  complete  ruin  for  both 
us  and  the  Kreekal  could  have  re- 
sulted from  its  continuance.  I don’t 
suppose  you  realize  it,  but  the  con- 
flict had  actually  been  extended  from 
the  disputed  colonial  planets  to  the 
home  systems.”  He  fumbled  in  his 
folder  and  produced  a photograph, 
held  it  carefully.  “We  suffered  ter- 
rible losses.  Last  month  the  Kreekal 
struck  at  the  Terran  system  with 
the  ‘better  part  of  their  fleet.  Earth 
was  saved,  but  to  hold  them  off  we 
had  to  contract  the  system’s  defen- 
sive sphere  drastically.  Mars  was 
sacrificed.” 

He  slid  the  glossy  print  across  the 
desk,  and  the  general  picked  it  up 
casually,  looked  at  a brilliant  yellow- 
white  disk  set  against  star-iflecked 
blackness.  He  glanced  from  the  pic- 
ture to  Chalmers. 

“I  take  it  this  isn’t  the  natural 
Martian  albedo?” 

“That  isn’t  reflection  at  all.  Gen- 
eral. The  surface  was  still  incandes- 
cent when  the  picture  was  taken, 
two  days  after  the  attack.  They 
blanketed  the  planet  with  hell- 
bombs.  Naturally,  there  were  no 
survivors.  Two  billion  died.” 

“I  suppose  we  were  avenged,”  the 
general  said,  not  really  wanting  to 
know  and  definitely  not  wanting  to 
know  now.  He  had  said  what  was 
expected  of  him. 

“We  hit  back  at  their  home  sys- 
tem. Their  sun  was  extinguished.” 

“And  that  settled  it,  I suppose? 
The  rest  of  the  war  was  incidental 
to  the  conclusion  — just  for  the 


YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 


25 


sake  of  fonn  while  teims  were  be* 
ing  settled?” 

sorry,  General.  I understand 
your  bittemess,  but  it  doesn’t  real- 
ly matter,  does  it?” 

General  (Blackwood  gazed  levelly 
at  the  Empress,  realizing  what  was 
comiing,  then  looked  back  at  Chal- 
mers. “My  army  alone  lost  several 
million  soldiers  durmig  the  last 
weeks,  Mr  Chalmers.  That  matters 
very  much.  Make  your  point.” 

“The  point  is,  damn  it,  that  the 
human  race  has  got  five  billion  sol- 
diers on  its  hands  with  no  more  wars 
to  fight.  Terra  Control  has  ordered 
that  they  be  destroyed.” 

The  general  nodded,  looking  down 
at  the  desk.  “Yes.  I thought  it 
would  come  to  this.  But  why  were 
you  sent?” 

“Terra  Central  thought  an  unac- 
companied directive  of  this  nature 
would  seem  a little  too  arbitrary. 
They  thought  if  I delivered  it,  it 
would  . . . well  . . Chalmers 
faltered,  embarrassed  by  what  he 
had  to  say.  “They  thought  it  would 
be  less  inhuman,  this  way.” 

The  general  laughed  harshly,  but 
immediately  regreted  his  cruelty.  He 
did  not  envy  Chalmers’s  responsibili- 
ty. He  ‘became  aware  that  the  Em- 
press was  speaking  to  him. 

“Can’t  you  .explain  this  to  us, 
General?”  she  asked.  “Mr.  Chalmers 
assured  us  that  this  expedient  was 
necessary,  but  we  don’t  quite  un- 
derstand why.  Why  can’t  the  men  be 
deactivated  and  returned  to  civilian 
life?” 

The  general  did  not  reply,  and 
after  a while  Chalmers  spoke  for 


bdinL  He  Ihad  rehearsed  it  to  himself 
80  meny  times  that  it  mo  longer 
sounded  oonvlnoiag  to  him,  but  he 
recited  it  meticulously.  He  looked 
at  the  Empress. 

“As  you  know,  the  Kreekan  so- 
ciety is  hive-oriented.  Their  soldier- 
forms  are  adapted  from  the  vast 
worker  element  of  their  community 
and  are  conditioned  to  fight  from 
the  moment  of  hatching.  Mankind 
had  never  faced  an  opposition  or- 
ganized along  these  lines,  ‘but  the 
very  nature  of  the  conflict  demanded 
that  we  fight  them  on  their  own 
terms  — that  is,  in  land  wars  on 
the  contested  planets. 

“Two  hundred  years  ago,  the 
worlds  under  the  control  of  Terra 
Central  began  to  develop  a warrior 
class  to  match  the  Kreekan  soldier- 
forms.  Great  numbers  of  men  were 
needed,  and  each  system  recruited  an 
independent  army  from  male  in- 
fants purchased  at  birth  from  their 
parents. 

“To  meet  the  personnel  require- 
ments, virtually  the  entire  male  por- 
tion of  the  human  race  has  come  to 
be  tied  up  in  the  service  of  Man. 
They  are  trained  from  birth,  and 
their  training  consists  of  two  parts. 
The  first  is  the  complete  focusing 
of  all  emotion  into  a single  drive 
to  destroy  Kreekan  soldier-forms, 
and  the  second  is  the  development  of 
the  physical  and  technical  prowess 
necessary  to  implement  the  first.  In 
short,  the  infants  are  reared  so 
that  their  only  feeling  is  one  of  en- 
mity toward  the  Kreekal,  and  their 
only  skill  is  a propensity  for  destroy- 
ing Kreekal.  Tbey  are  exact  coun- 
terparts of  the  Kreekan  soldier- 


26 


IF 


forms.  They  are  machines  designed 
to  serve  one  purpose,  and  with  the 
end  of  the  war  that  purpose  has 
ceased  to  exist.  They  no  longer 
have  an  object  in  life.”  He  paused, 
having  said  what  was  needed.  There 
would  be  questions  and  objections, 
but  he  had  stated  the  case. 

“I  think  we  see  the  difficulty,” 
the  Empress  said.  “But  why?  Wliy 
was  this  done  to  them?” 

Chalmers  started  to  answer,  but 
the  general  interrupted  him  — 
rather  bluntly,  as  Chalmers  thought. 

“Your  Highness,  the  enemy  has 
a great  deal  in  common  with  com- 
munal insects:  A small  aristocracy 
and  a huge  mindless  working  class. 
I say  mindless  advisedly.  Single- 
minded  is  what  I mean.  They  are 
generated  to  work  — or  in  time  of 
war,  to  kill.  The  distinction  is 
slight,  since  there’s  no  real  emotion 
involved  in  either.  With  them,  wield- 
ing a gun  is  little  different  from 
wielding  a shovel.  This  isn’t  so  with 
mature  men.  The  greater  part  of 
training  an  adult  human  to  kill  has 
never  been  the  development  of  the 
killer  instinct  and  the  killer  skills 
— these  are  always  present,  if  lat- 
ent. It  has  been,  rather,  the  sup- 
pression of  the  array  of  gentler  in- 
stincts that  have  been  generated  in 
the  course  of  a normal  life:  Love, 
ambition,  social  instincts  and  so 
forth.  Getting  rid  of  these  is  the 
problem.  And  to  meet  the  mechani- 
cal animosity  of  the  Kreekal,  it 
just  wasn’t  practical  to  start  out  with 
mature  men  whose  very  way  of  life 
had  conditioned  them  against  war- 
fare with  an  absolutely  passionless 


adversary.  It  just  wasn’t  practical. 
Hell,  it  wasn’t  possible.  We  had  to 
start  with  blank  slates,  and  we 
needed  a lot  of  them.” 

But  couldn’t  they  be  retrained. 
General?” 

“No.  They’re  lost  to  us  in  that 
respect.  Your  Highness.  Naturally, 
we’ve  looked  into  it  completely. 
They’re  like  the  survivors  who  are 
sometimes  found  on  colonial  worlds 
that  were  thought  to  have  been  total- 
ly depopulated  by  disease.  Abandon- 
ed as  infants,  they  grow  up  entirely 
on  their  own,  roaming  in  the  wild, 
and  when  they’re  finally  brought 
back  into  the  fold  they  can  never  ad- 
just. Maybe  they  can  learn  a few 
words  — a few  simple  tasks  — but 
they  remain  subhuman.  They  never 
develop  social  skills.” 

“But  these  men  must  have  social 
skills  already.  General.  They’re 
members  of  an  army  — they  have 
comrades.  And  they  can  speak.” 

“The  basic  lack  is  the  same,”  the 
general  explained  unhappily.  “The 
factor  underlying  meaningful  so- 
ciety is  the  sexual  drive  and  its 
fulfillment,  but  these  men  have 
no  sexual  outlet  in  fhe  ordinary 
sense.  Harnassing  that  drive  has 
been  our  greatest  problem.  Initially, 
we  had  contemplated  castration,  but 
if  it’s  performed  early  it  interferes 
with  the  physical  development  we  re- 
quire, and  after  maturiity  it’s  out  of 
the  question  — the  trauma  would 
destroy  the  psychological  balance 
we  set  for  them  from  birth.  Homo- 
sexual outlets  are  even  more  out 
of  the  question  — we  can’t  afford 
to  have  any  feeling  of  affection  de- 
veloping between  comrades.  They 


YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 


27 


are  trained  to  think  of  each  other 
as  they  would  of  any  other  piece 
of  military  equipment  — as  gears  in 
a mechanism  of  which  they  are  a 

part and  this  ultimate,  impersonal 

rationality  is  all  that  has  allowed  us 
to  operate  successfully  against  the 
enemy. 

“All  that  remained  was  to  sup- 
ply them  with  women  at  regular 
intervals,  which  we  do.  One  woman 
can  service  a great  many  soldiers, 
and  it  proved  the  most  practical 
solution.  But  other  than  a very  basic 
sort  of  tenderness  toward  their  sex- 
ual partners,  emotion  doesn’t  enter 
into  the  relationships.  They  have  no 
emotions.  They’re  incapable  of  any 
sort  of  reciprocal  relationship.  They 
don’t  even  recognize  the  females  as 
human.  Or  themselves,  for  that  mat- 
ter. We  never  teach  their  females  to 
speak,  you  know  — there’s  no 
reason  to.” 

They  were  silent  for  a moment, 
and  when  she  spoke,  the  Em- 
press gave  voice  to  what  they  were 
all  feeling.  “I  think  this  is  rather 
awful.  General.  I don’t  believe  most 
of  us  have  quite  realized  what  was 
going  on.” 

Chalmers  came  to  the  general’s 
rescue.  “Precisely,  Your  Highness. 
That’s  why  Terra  Central  didn’t  send 
their  directive  out  through  ordinary 
channels.  No  one  is  ever  to  know 
what  has  happened.  God  knows  how 
close  we  came  to  extinction  in  this 
mess.  All  that  saved  the  human 
race  is  this  terrible  thing  we’ve  done. 
That’s  all  in  the  past,  now,  though 
— for  better  or  worse.  We’re  at 
peace,  and  the  new  format  is  co- 


operation and  cohabitation  with  the 
Kreekal.  Our  soldiers  simply  could 
not  survive  in  such  a context,  or 
even  be  permitted  to  enter  it.  They 
can’t  be  taught  to  support  themselves, 
and  now  that  we’re  off  the  war 
footage  we  can’t  afford  to  support 
them  ourselves.  They  lived  off  rav- 
aged worlds  in  the  past  — where 
are  they  to  find  sustenance  now?  We 
did  something  terrible  in  creating 
them,  and  we  must  do  something 
just  as  awful  to  dispose  of  them. 

“There’s  no  possibility  of  beating 
swords  into  ploughshares  — not  in 
this  case.  These  are  not  so  much  men 
as  tliey  are  weapK)ns.  They  have  no 
versatility.  Versatility  was  painstak- 
ingly bred  out  of  them. 

“No,  Your  Highness.  Tanks  may 
be  converted  to  tractors,  but  the  vir- 
tue of  this  human  steel  is  in  its 
temper.  Any  attempt  to  reforge  it 
would  leave  us  with  nothing.” 

The  Empress  smiled  gently.  “Your 
point  is  well  taken,  Mr.  Chalmers. 
But  I think  that  in  putting  our  ra- 
tionalizations into  words  we  tend 
to  become  rather  too  picturesque. 
These  are  human  beings,  after  all. 
Let’s  deal  with  them  in  human 
terms.” 

“I’m  sorry,’’  Chalmers  said.  “What 
I mean  to  say  is  that  they’ve  been 
forced  into  the  mold  so  tightly  that 
they  would  be  shattered  completely 
if  their  molds  were  removed.  I don’t 
think  they’re  psychologically  equip- 
ped to  deal  with  any  situation  other 
than  the  one  they’re  in.  Certainly 
they’re  not  capable  of  independent 
action.  They  act  only  in  response  to 
their  superiors,  and  their  superiors 
are  ultimately  men.” 


23 


IF 


“Damn  it,  Chalmers,”  the  general 
snapped.  “You  insist  on  segregating 
them  under  this  aibsurd  ‘they.*  They 
are  men,  Chalmers.  Their  victory 
wasn’t  won  for  your  exclusive  ‘us’  — 
it  was  won  for  the  human  race.  For 
themselves.  It’s  not  fair  to  shut  them 
out!”  The  general  fell  silent,  realiz- 
ing that  he  had  begun  to  plead. 

“No,  it’s  not  fair,”  Chalmers  re- 
plied. “But  it’s  necessary.  Never 
have  so  few  owed  so  much  to  so 
many,  and  yet  what  can  we  do  for 
them  in  return?  We  haven’t  the 
means  to  support  five  billion  non- 
productive men.  Assuming  they  were 
susceptible  to  retraining,  we  haven’t 
the  means  to  effect  even  that.  They’re 
no  longer  a necessity  to  our  sur- 
vival, and  we  have  other  work  to 
do.  If  we  don’t  destroy  them,  they’ll 
die  horribly  of  starvation  — or 
worse.  You  know  that.” 

The  general  said  nothing. 

“We  need  so  badly  to  expand  our 
population  now,”  the  Empress  ven- 
tured. “Couldn’t  they  take  mates? 
There  are  so  many  more  women 
than  men  — couldn’t  the  women 
shoulder  the  load?  It  would  just  be 
for  one  generation.” 

The  general  shook  his  head.  “The 
soldiers  have  no  conception  of  re- 
production. There  is  no  creche  on 
this  world,  and  they  have  never  seen 
children.  They  could  only  serve  as 
stud  animals,  and  for  that  there  are 
enough  normal  men.” 

“But  what  becomes  of  the  sol- 
diers who  grow  too  old  to  fight?” 
she  asked.  “Surely  you  don’t  liquidate 
them?” 

“No,  Your  Highness.  That’s  one 
problem  we  haven’t  had  to  face. 


You  see,  no  one  grows  old  in  the 
service  of  Man.” 

She  stared  at  the  general  help- 
lessly. “But  you  say  nothing  in 
their  behalf.  You’re  signing  their 
death  order!”  she  cried  desperately, 
accusingly. 

“I  know  I am,”  he  answCT^,  and 
there  was  a tightness  in  his  v<xce  that 
made  her  drop  her  eyes  in  shame. 

After  a long  moment  the  general 
looked  at  Chalmers,  but  it  was  to 
her  that  he  spoke.  “I’ve  arranged 
to  have  one  of  the  soldiers  drop 
by.  You  may  want  to  talk  to  him 
— he’ll  be  in  the  outer  office.  If 
you  don’t  mind.  I’ll  wait  here.” 

Infantry  Commander  Third  Class 
RB-1079AX  had  been  summoned 
from  the  exercise  field  eariy  in  the 
morning,  and  had  been  told  at  the 
barracks  to  repK>rt  to  the  general’s 
quarters  at  noon.  He  had  spent  the 
morning  in  unaccustomed  idleness, 
sitting  on  his  bunk  and  listening  to 
the  sounds  that  drifted  in  through 
the  open  door.  A half  hour  before 
noon  he  had  showered  and  dressed 
in  clean  fatigues  and  now  stood  in 
the  general’s  deserted  staff  office, 
waiting. 

The  inner  door  opened,  and  two 
strange  men  emerg^  and  stopped 
before  him.  He  saluted  and  stood 
at  attention.  Neither  of  the  strangers 
was  in  military  dress,  and  it  soon  be- 
came apparent  that  one  of  them  was 
not  a Man  at  all,  but  something  more 
like  a She.  He  had  never  seen  a 
She  in  the  company  of  Men  before, 
but  from  the  contours  of  its  loose, 
peculiar  cut  tunic  he  could  see  that 
its  body  must  more  nearly  approxi- 


YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 


29 


mate  that  of  a She  than  that  of  a 
Maa  or  a soldier.  The  tunic  in  itself 
was  suiprising  ,for  Ihe  lhad  seldom 
seea  a She  with  dothing  of  any  sort. 
Its  undad  legs  were  unifmred,  and 
there  was  a heavy  growth  of  hair 
on  its  head,  neither  of  which  was 
typical  of  a She,  but  he  conjectured 
that  it  might  be  some  sort  of  form 
peculi-ar  to  Men  — a sort  of  Man- 
She,  perhaps.  He  waited  for  infor- 
mation that  might  confirm  his 
theory. 

Then,  shockingly,  the  She  looked 
at  him  — and  spoke:  “What  a mag- 
nificent Man.” 

He  turned  and  looked,  but  there 
was  no  Man  in  evidence.  He  looked 
at  the  She,  puzzled,  and  noticed  that 
it  was  in  pain.  He  picked  up  a phone 
from  a vacant  desk  and  named  the 
hospital  extension,  ordered  a medic 
to  die  general’s  quarters.  When  he 
looked  up,  the  general  was  beside 
him. 

“Sir,  the  She  had  water  in  its 
eyes.  I have  asked  for  Medic,  sir,”  he 
replied. 

The  general  took  the  phone  from 
him  and  cancelled  the  order,  replac- 
ed the  receiver.  “It’s  okay.  Com- 
mander. The  She  is  all  right.”  He 
walked  the  commander  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room  and,  putting  a hand 
on  his  shoulder,  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  voice,,  watching  the  others. 
“Look,  Commander,  this  She  and  the 
Man.  with  it  might  want  to  ask  you 
a couple  of  questions.  They  may 
not  be  too  -pertinent,  but  just  an- 
swer the  best  you  can  and  don’t 
worry  about  it,  huh?” 

“Okay,  sir,”  he  said. 

He  faced  the  strangers  careful- 


ly. The  General  spoke  to  them, 
and  after  a moment  the  She  ap- 
proadhed  him. 

“Who  are  you?”  the  She  asked. 

“Infantry  Commander  Third 
Class  RB- 1079 AX,  soldier  in  the 
service  of  man  . . . sir.” 

“But  what  are  you?” 

He  repeated  the  information. 

“Yes,  I see,”  the  She  said.  “You 
are  a soldier.  Will  you  always  be  a 
soldier?”  Its  voice  was  quiet.' 

“Until  death.” 

“But  what  would  happen  to  you 
if  there  were  no  more  wars?  If 
there  were  no  more  enemies  to 
fight?” 

He  did  not  answer. 

“Don’t  you  know  that  you’re  a 
Man?” 

He  did  not  answer. 

The  general  stepped  between  them 
and  winked  at  him.  “That’s  all,  com- 
mander. You  can  leave  now.  Pick 
up  your  routine  this  afternoon.” 

He  saluted  and  left  the  general’s 
quarters. 

44T  Tas  he  no  dress  uniform?. 

JnL  asked  the  Empress,  eager  to 
break  the  hiatus  of  silence  that  had 
descended  in  the  wake  of  the  sol- 
dier. 

“There  are  no  dress  uniforms,” 
the  general  said  without  expression. 
“The  dress  uniform  is  a mark  of 
the  juncture  o-f  the  military  and  so- 
cial spheres.  There  is  no  society 
here.” 

“I’m  sorry.  I thought  he  might 
not  have  been  intelligent  enough 
to  . . . that  is,  I thought  he  might 
not  have  known  ...”  She  paused, 
uncertain  of  what  she  had  wanted 


30 


IF 


to  say.  Then  she  simply  said,  “He 
seem^  awfully  stupid.” 

The  general  did  not  smile.  “With 
respect  to  intelligence,  you  know, 
there  isn’t  one  person  in  ten  thou- 
sand who  could  approach  him.  He  is, 
of  course,  much  more  clever  than 
any  of  us.  I felt  he  would  acquit 
himself  well.” 

He  'beckoned  to  Chalmers  and 
turned  to  the  Empress.  “If  you 
would  wait  here  for  a moment.  Your 
Highness.  I will  have  a word  with 
Mr.  Chalmers.” 

They  went  into  the  inner  office 
together. 

“I  suppose  she  represents  the 
typical  reaction  to  the  soldier,” 
Chalmers  remarked  when  the  door 
was  closed.  “A  magnificent,  pathetic 
creature  whose  way  of  life  offends 


her  sense  of  propriety  and  whose 
intelligence  is  oriented  in  a way 
she  can’t  comprehend.” 

The  general  had  not  heard.  “I 
won’t  let  them  die,”  he  whispered.  It 
was  'his  duty  to  say  it. 

“The  nerve  gas  is  painless  and 
instantaneous,”  Chalmers  said,  dis- 
regarding the  general  and  disregard- 
ing something  within  himself  that 
echoed  the  general’s  words.  “Several 
bases  have  already  been  treated.  The 
exterminators  are  orbiting  a few 
thousand  miles  out.  I’ll  have  them 
come  down  tomorrow  morning.  It 
will  be  over  in  a few  minutes.” 

“I  can*t  let  them  die.” 

“Yes  you  can,”  said  Chalmers 
heavily.” 

“We  all  can.  We  have  to.” 

END 


siiiMiiiiitiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiMiiiMiiiiiitiiiitiiiiiiiiiiimimiimiimimiimiimmmiiimimniiimmiiiiimiiiiiiiiimiiiiiu 


Coming  Next  Month  in  IF! 

TRUCE  OR  CONSEQUENCES 

A Hilarious  New  Relief  Novehfie 
by  Keith  Laumer 

HALFWAY  HOUSE 

by  Robert  Silverberg 

AT  THE  CORE 

by  Larry  Niven 

A CODE  FOR  SAM 

by  Lester  del  Rey 

November  IF  on  Sale  September  30th  . . , reserve  your  copy  nowl 


' 


YOUR  SOLDIER  UNTO  DEATH 


31 


W.  • Senal 


Strange  girls!  Their  clothes 
vanished  from  time  to  time, 
and  their  home  was — nowhere! 


Lunching  at  the  Red  Lion  on  roast 
beef  of  Old  England,  I glanced 
out  of  the  upstairs  window  and  saw, 
across  the  road,  a girl  in  a pink  suit. 

A moment  later  I choked.  A mor- 
sel of  meat  went  down  the  wrong 
way,  and  for  a second  or  two,  fight- 
ing for  breath,  eyes  streaming,  I 
couldn’t  see  anything. 

When  I could  see  again  she  was 
just  a girl  in  a pink  suit  walking 
along  a narrow  street  in  a quiet  town, 
possibly  the  quietest  country  town  in 
England.  I went  back  to  the  roast 
beef.  What  I had  thought  I saw  was 
a trick  of  the  sunlight,  obviously. 

Many  remarkable  and  some  impos- 
sible things  had  been  attributed  to 
the  sun  in  the  last  month  or  two, 
since  a preternaturally  hot  summer 
took  England  by  surprise,  A hot  sum- 
mer always  took  England  by  surprise. 
When  Byron  wrote  of  the  English 
winter  ending  in  July  to  recommence 
in  August,  he  wasn’t  coining  an  epi- 
gram. He  was  merely  stating  the  ob- 
vious. 

But  this  year  . . . 

•In  Shuteley  we  weren’t  concerned 
with  things  that  happened  in  London, 
Liverpool  or  Leeds.  In  places  like 
that  anything  could  happen.  When 
we  heard  that  three  Socialist  M.P.s 
had  turned  up  at  the  House  of  Com- 
mons dressed  in  sandals  and  shorts, 
we  sniffed  and  decided  to  vote  Tory 
next  time  (as  we  ; did  anyway). 
In  Shuteley,  however: 


The  river  was  so  low  that  about 
four  miles  upstream  you  could  walk 
across,  something  which  had  never 
happened  (before  in  the  history  of 
Shuteley  — which  went  back  to  the 
Ark. 

We  had  the  first-ever  traffic  jam 
in  the  center  of  town,  and  it  was 
caused  by  a mini-car  sticking  in 
melted  and  churned-oip  tar. 

A poacher  claimed  in  court  that 
the  trout  he  took  from  a pool  was 
not  only  dead,  but  already  cooked. 
Althou^  this  was  agreed  to  be  the 
tale  to  'beat  all  anglers’  tales,  he  was 
discharged  without  a stain  on  his 
character  (except  those  which  were 
there  already). 

The  hot  summer  was  not,  we  were 
told,  caused  by  anything  of  any 
permanent  significance.  Next  year 
the  temperature  would  probaibly  be 
normal.  A combination  of  factors, 
said  the  meteorologists  (and  they’d 
go  into  a wealth  of  detail  if  you  gave 
them  half  a Chance)  was  keeping 
the  temperature  up  and  the  rainfall 
down.  Such  conditions  might  not  re- 
cur for  two  hundred  years. 

Every  year  I could  remember,  and 
I could  remember  about  thirty,  plus 
a few  more  about  which  I had  vague 
childhood  impressions,  people  had 
complained  about  the  poor  summer. 
Now  they  complained  about  the  hot 
summer. 

The  dining  room  at  the  Red  Lion, 

IF 


34 


directly  above  the  bar,  was  the  pleas- 
antest room  in  Shuteley,  and  that  was 
probably  why  I nearly  always  lunch- 
ed there,  in  spite  of  the  food.  It  had 
windows  on  three  sides,  a high  roof, 
oak  stalls  which  insured  quiet  as  well 
as  privacy,  spotless  linen  and  middle- 
ag^  waitresses  who  afforded  no  pos- 
sible distraction.  It  was  the  kind  of 
room  you  often  find  in  a very  old 
town,  not  aggressively  modern,  not 
dating  back  to  Magna  Carta  — a 
room  which  had  been  many  things 
in  its  time,  which  had  been  modified 
and  renovated  and  redecorated  time 
and  again,  but  never  until  it  cried 
out  for  it,  which  had  been  left  alone 
apart  from  cleaning  and  painting  for 
at  least  thirty  years. 

Also,  it  was  never  too  hot.  You 
had  to  say  this  for  solid  old  build- 
ings — there  wasn’t  much  they  could 
not  keep  out.  I sighed  as  I finished 
the  apple  tart.  And  I wished  . . . 

I wasn’t  old.  I was  thirty-three.  I 
was  married  to  a pretty  girl  nine 
years  younger.  As  manager  of  an 
important  insurance  office,  I was 
probably  one  of  the  three  most  im- 
portant men  in  Shuteley.  I had  no 
money  worries,  no  health  worries,  no 
children  to  worry  about,  no  relatives 
to  worry  -about,  except  Dina  and  a 
mother  in  a mental  home.  And  by 
the  time  people  are  in  a mental  home 
and  so  far  gone  that  the  medical  staff 
advises  you  not  to  visit  them,  there’s 
certainly  no  point  in  worrying  about 
them. 

I was  probably  envied.  I couldn’t 
be  sure,  because  a young  boss  has  to 
be  careful.  He  can’t  be  too  friendly, 
or  people  take  advantage. 


I was  pretty  solitary  and  old  be- 
fore my  time. 

And  I wished  something  would 
happen. 

I’d  heard  a story  about  the  two- 
year-old  son  of  the  principal  English 
master  at  the  Grammar  School.  The 
infant  had  been  at  his  first  kids’ 
party,  and  he  didn’t  like  it.  He  was 
found  under  the  Christmas  tree,  cry- 
ing his  eyes  out.  Asked  why,  in  the 
middle  of  all  the  fun  and  games,  he 
wasn’t  happy  like  everybody  else,  he 
said:  “I’m  so  terribly,  terribly  bored.” 

Well,  a kid  like  that  was  only  re- 
peating what  he’d  heard  at  home. 
Poor  kid,  he  thought  it  was  impres- 
sively grown-up  to  be  bored. 

I wasn’t  two.  I wasn’t  bored,  ex- 
actly. I just  wanted  something  to 
happen,  sure  that  when  things  set- 
tled down  afterwards  they  couldn’t 
be  worse  and  might  easily  be  bette; . 

And  something  happened. 

II 

When  the  waitress  said  there  was 
a phone  call  for  me,  I was 
neither  surprised  nor  interested,  even 
when  she  said  it  was  long-distance. 

But  when  I picked  up  the  phone 
in  the  office  and  found  the  call  was 
from  Cologne,  I certainly  wondered. 
No  senior  executive  of  FLAG  was 
likely  to  call  me  from  Cologne,  in 
such  a hurry  that  the  call  had  to  be 
put  through  to  the  Red  Lion. 

And  when  I heard  Iota’s  voice, 
all  sorts  of  feelings  hit  me  all  at 
once. 

I hadn’t  seen  him  for  two  years, 
not  since  the  row.  I’d  been  quite  glad 
not  to  see  him,  naturally  enough. 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


35 


and  yet  I had  missed  him.  He  was 
my  cousin.  He  had  also  heen,  per- 
haps still  was,  my  best  friend.  I was 
not  entirely  sure  I liked  him,  but 
you  don’t  have  to  like  your  best 
friend. 

“Val,”  he  announced,  “I’m  com- 
ing back.” 

“Permanently?”  I asked,  without 
wild  enthusiasm. 

“Hell,  no.  But  there’s  been  trouble 
here.” 

“The  usual  trouble,  I suppose.” 

“Well,  apart  from  that,  her  hus- 
band’s dead.  No,  nothing  to  do  with 
me,  of  course.  But  she  thinks  . . . 
anyway.  I’m  coming  home  for  a 
while.  Can  I stay  with  you?” 

“As  to  that,  Jota,”  I said  cautious- 
ly, stalling,  “I’m  not  altogether  . . . 
I mean — ” 

“Oh,  that  business  is  finished,” 
said  Iota  airily.  “Never  began,  really. 
Still,  maybe  ...  I do  see  your  point. 
I could  go  to  Gil  instead.  Not  much 
^sk  of  trouble  there.”  And  he 
chuckled. 

Then  he  said:  “I  suppose  it’s  hot 
in  Shuteley  too?” 

“As  Hades.” 

“Anyway,  it  must  be  cooler  than 
it  is  here.  I’ll  fly  home.  Expect  me 
some  time  tomorrow.” 

And  he  hung  up. 

Jota  and  Qil  Carswell  and  I had 
been  the  Terrible  Three  of  the  Third 
at  the.  Grammar  School.  In  the 
Fourth,  Fifth  and  Sixth  we  remained 
inseparable,  but  only  one  of  us  re- 
mained Terrible.  Maturity  had  made 
Gil  morose,  engulfed  me  in  respect- 
ability, and  made  Jota  more  Terrible 
than  ever,  especially  after  he  invent- 
ed sex. 


Once  Jota  had  been  Clarence  Mul- 
liner,  but  the  name  was  abandoned, 
unwept  and  unsung,  from  the  day  a 
science  master  dubbed  him  J.O.A.T.- 
A.M.O.N.,  for  Jack  of  ah  trades  and 
master  of  none.  For  about  a week 
he  had  been  Joatamon,  and  then  in 
the  way  of  nicknames,  convenience 
had  made  him  Jota. 

I paid  my  bill,  crossed  the  road  to 
the  office,  and  there  I found  a crowd 
around  old  Tommy  Hardcastle,  who 
was  trying  desperately  to  explain 
something  and  getting  nowhere. 

“Break  it  up,”  I said  coldly. 

Nobody  budged. 

“But  Mr.  Mathers,”  said  Wilma 
Shelly,  “he  says  he  saw  — ” 

“I  did  see  her,”  Tommy  said  ea- 
gerly. “As  clear  as  I’m  seeing  you, 
Mr.  Mathers.  She  was  walking  along 
the  street,  right  past  the  front  door. 
Not  six  feet  from  me.  She  had  a 
pink  suit  on  — ” 

“And  she  didn’t  have  it  on,”  said 
Sayell,  who  fancied  himself  as  a wit 
and  was  half  right.  “She  was  walking 
along  the  street  in  the  nude  with  a 
pink  suit  on.” 

“That’s  right,”  said  To-mmy,  re- 
lieved to  be  understood  at  last,  and 
the  sniggers  swelled. 

A tall,  thin  youth  from  the  ac- 
counts department,  who  always 
tried  to  settle  everything  to  the  last 
decimal  part  of  a penny,  said:  “She 
was  wearing  a see-through  dress, 
Tommy?  Lace,  maybe?” 

“No,  it  was  an  ordinary  pink  suit, 
but  sometimes  it  wasn’t  there.  I 
mean  ...”  He  floundered  on,  and 
the  kids  chuckled,  and  for  the  time 
being  I didn’t  stop  them. 


36 


IF 


I had  seen  the  girl  too.  And  I had 
thought,  just  for  a moment,  as  she 
turned  and  glanced  across  the  street, 
that  she  was  wearing  a pink  skirt 
and  giving  away  everything  above 
her  waistband  free.  The  impression 
had  been  strong  enough  to  make 
me  choke. 

Of  course  in  such  a summer  there 
had  been  some  startling  sartorial 
spectacles.  I wouldn’t  have  turned  a 
hair  if  the  girl  had  been  wearing  a 
bikini,  because  all  over,  that  sum- 
mer, even  in  Shuteley,  conventional  ' 
ideas  about  when  and  where  to  wear 
what  had  been  tacitly  dropped.  Even 
policemen  were  allowed  to  wear 
shorts,  and  sometimes  only  shorts. 

But  long  before  this  remarkable 
summer,  the  world  had  decided  it 
wasn’t  ready  for  the  topless  dress. 
And  that  wasn’t  all.  If  the  girl  had 
been  casually  strolling  along  the 
street  in  a topless  dress.  I’d  have 
goggled  my  eyes  but  I wouldn’t  have 
choked.  It  was  the  abrupt  change 
before  my  eyes,  like  a piece  of  mont- 
age in  a movie,  that  hit  me. 

“No*w  you  see  it,  now  you  don’t,” 
Sayell  was  saying,  working  hard  for 
more  laughs. 

Although  that  was  exactly  what  I 
was  thinking  myself,  I came  down 
sharply  on  Sayell  and  the  rest  of 
them,  sending  them  all  back  to  their 
desks  except  Tommy,  who  went  to 
tlie  door. 

“I  did  see  her,  Mr.  Mathers,” 
Tommy  insisted. 

“Of  course  you  did.  Tommy.” 

I went  to  my  private  office, 
thought  for  a moment,  shrugged,  and 
started  work,  trying  not  to  give  the 
incident  too  much  thought. 


The  Shuteley  branch  of  the  Fire, 
Life  and  General  Insurance 
Company — ^usually  known  as  FLAG 
— was  unique  in  its  way.  Shuteley, 
situated  in  the  approximate  middle 
of  England,  was  a fair-sized  old- 
world  town,  yet  there  was  only  one 
insurance  office  that  counted.  Ours. 

This  was  almost  entirely  due  to 
the  cunning  and  villainy  of  one  Amos 
Hardy,  an  old  rogue  who  died  in 
1913  at  the  age  of  108.  As  a young 
man,  he  set  up  his  own  insurance 
company  in  the  town,  with  no  capi- 
tal and  no  connections.  It  was  said 
he  had  not  been  above  fire-raising 
in  the  early  days  when  insurance 
was  a more  adventurous  business 
than  it  is  now.  After  1909  every  fire 
insurance  company  had  to  deposit 
£20,000  with  the  Board  of  Trade 
before  it  could  do  business  — but 
by  that  time,  having  made  hay  while 
the  sun  shone,  the  wily  old  scoun- 
drel was  making  the  law  and  not 
obeying  it  more  than  he  ever  did. 

He  got  such  a hold  on  insurance 
in  the  town,  did  old  Amos,  that  by 
the  time  he  died  nobody  for  miles 
around  knew  that  other  insurance 
companies  existed.  Of  course,  his 
business  was  eventually  taken  over 
by  FLAG,  a big  national  firm,  but 
Amos  had  done  his  work  so  well 
that  even  in  the  sixties  any  agent  of 
any  other  firm  trying  to  drum  up 
business  in  Shuteley  was  wasting 
good  expense  money. 

That  was  why,  in  a sleepy  country 
town  that  had  more  of  Old  England 
in  it  than  most  — we  still  had  a vil- 
lage green  with  a pump,  surrounded 
by  timbered  houses  in  which  Queen 
Elizabeth  might  have  slept,  but  had 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


37 


not  — there  was  an  insurance  office 
the  size  of  a young  factory. 

One  of  the  girls  had  to  go  to  the 
bank,  and  I gave  her  a message  for 
Gil  Carswell,  who  worked  in  the 
local  branch  of  the  Midland  Bank, 
merely  telling  him  that  Mr.  Mulliner 
would  be  arriving  the  next  day.  . 

She  had  just  left  the  room  when 
the  phone  rang.  My  calls  were  vetted: 
this  was  one  I had  to  take.  I an- 
nounced myself. 

“Sheila  here,”  said  the  phone, 
rather  starkly. 

“Yes,  honey?” 

“Dina  has  locked  herself  in  her 
room.” 

I didn’t  manage  to  place  the  crisis, 
though  clearly  there  was  one.  “What 
about  it?”  I said. 

“Have  you  forgotten,  Val,?  The 
electrician’s  here.  Mr.  Jerome.  He 
has  io  get  into  Dina’s  room.” 

“Well,  tell  her  to  come  out.” 

Sheila  sighed  in  exasperation. 
“There  is  now  no  further  competi- 
tion for  the  silliest  suggestion  of  the 
month.” 

“Well,  I suppose  you  did  tell  her. 
Tell  her  again.  Make  her  come  out.” 

“Break  the  door  down?” 

I was  exasperated  too.  “If  you 
have  to.” 

“A  great  heavy  teak  door?  With 
my  own  fair  hands?  Hardly,  Val.  Mr. 
Jerome  would  have  to  do  it.  And 
then  — ” 

“Yes,  yes,  I know.”  And  then  it 
would  be  all  over  town  that  Dina 
Mathers  had  tantrums  and  locked 
herself  in  and  doors  had  to  be  burst 
open.  “What  did  she  say,”  I asked, 
“when  you  told  her  to  come  out?” 

“She  said,”  Sheila  said  evenly. 


“that  she  was  scared  of  the  fairies.” 
“The  what?” 

“You  heard.  Last  night  she  saw 
fairies  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
So  she’s  staying  in  her  room.  They 
may  be  good  fairies,  but  she  isn’t 
taking  any  chances.” 

I didn’t  prolong  the  discussion. 
“All  right,”  I said.  “I’ll  come.” 

Sheila  and  I got  along  no  worse 
than  most  imperfect  marital  part- 
nerships. We  might  have  got  Mong 
a lot  better  — Sheila  certainly 
thought  so  — but  for  Dina. 

Dina  was  my  kid  sister,  tiny,  sev- 
enteen, as  pretty  as  a picture  and 
sunny-tempered  with  everyone  but 
Sheila.  One  reason  why  I cracked 
down  so  hard  on  anyone  who  made 
fun  of  Tommy  Hardcastle  was  be- 
cause, althou^  Tommy  and  Dina 
couldn’t  be  more  different  in  every 
other  way,  they  had  one  thing  in 
common  . . . 

I slipped  out  as  quietly  as  I could, 
because  it  never  does  an  office  any 
good  when  the  boss  goes  out  and 
everybody  knows  it  isn’t  on  business. 
I took  the  car  from  the  firm’s  car 
park  and  drove  out  past  the  Gram- 
mar School  . . . 

. . . And  stopped.  A hundred  or 
so  boys  between  thirteen  and  four- 
teen, all  wearing  blue  shorts,  filled 
the  road. 

The  Grammar  School  was  four 
hundred  years  old.  The  school  field 
was  a hundred  yards  along  the  road, 
on  the  other  side  of  it,  and  there  was 
no  changing  accommodation.  So  the 
kids  changed  at  the  school,  crossed 
the  road  to  the  field,  and  came  back 
after  sports. 


38 


IF 


The  arrangement,  or  lack  of  same, 
was  typical  of  Shuteley. 

After  all  the  boys  had  crossed,  I 
drove  past  the  castle  across  the  Old 
Bridge  and  turned  into  the  track 
which  led  to  our  Queen  Anne  house 
about  a quarter  of  a mile  beyond 
the  town  boundary.  The  track  also 
served  a few  farms  farther  on. 

Sheila,  in  a paint-speckled  sweater 
and  jeans  powdered  with  plaster,  had 
evidently  been  tidying  up  after  the 
electrician.  She  was  a slim  24-year- 
old  blonde,  and  I had  not  married 
her  because  she  was  the  ugliest  girl 
in  Shuteley. 

“All  right,”  she  said  grimly.  ”You 
shift  her.” 

“You  didn’t  . . . say  anything, 
honey,  did  you?”  I asked  tentatively. 

She  knew  what  I meant.  “I  told 
her  the  electrician  had  to  work  in 
her  room,  that’s  all.  And  she  talked 
about  fairies.” 

I sighed.  Dina  just  couldn’t  see 
why  I wanted  Sheila  around,  and 
never  would.  What  did  I want  with 
another  girl  when  I had  her?  And 
Sheila,  though  she  had  no  deficiency 
of  understanding,  was  driven  quiet- 
ly desperate  by  the  way  Dina,  the 
moment  my  back  was  turned,  be- 
came mulishly,  deliberately  obstinate 
as  only  a grown-up  child  could  be. 

I didn’t  see  Mr.  Jerome,  who  had 
found  a job  to  do  elsewhere  in  the 
house.  I went  up  to  Dina’s  room, 
Sheila  at  my  heels,  and  tapped  on 
the  door. 

“Dina,  honey,”  I said. 

“Val?”  came  Dina’s  voice,  sur- 
prised and  slightly,  but  only  slightly, 
apprehensive.  “What  are  you  doing 
home  at  this  time?” 


“You  have  to  come  out,  honey,*’ 
I said  patiently. 

“No.  I’m  scared  of  the  fairies.” 
“Fairies  don’t  do  you  any  harm.” 
“How  do  you  know?” 

“Dina,  you  didn’t  really  see  any- 
thing at  all,  did  you?” 

“I  saw  the  fairy  ring.  In^the  wood. 
Didn’t  Sheila  tell  you?  I’d  have  told 
you  this  morning,*  only  you  were 
gone  before  I got  up.  I thought 
Sheila  would  have  told  you.” 

No  one  could  be  as  innocent  as 
Dina  when  she  was  trying  to  make 
trouble  for  Sheila. 

“Anyway,”  I said,  “you’ve  got  to 
come  out.” 

A brief  pause,  then:  “I  can’t.  I’m 
not  dressed.” 

“Then  get  dressed.” 
Triumphantly:  “Sheila  took  all  my 
clothes  away.” 

Sheila’s  eyes  met  mine.  She  didn’t 
have  to  tell  me  that  any  clothes 
she’d  taken  were  to  be  washed. 
“Come  out,  Dina,”  I said. 

There  was  silence. 

Sheila  held  my  gaze  steadily.  ‘This 
is  what  I have  to  put  up  with  all 
day  and  every  day,”  she  was  saying, 
without  uttering  a word.  I didn’t  say 
anything  either.  She  knew  what  I 
was  thinking  too.  What  could  a man 
do?  There  wasn’t  anywhere  else  Dina 
could  go.  Our  father  was  dead,  and 
our  mother  . . . well,  to  give  Sheila 
her  due,  even  in  our  bitterest  rows 
she  never  brought  up  the  subject  of 
Mary,  who  was  in  an  institution,  who 
was  the  reason  why  Dina  was  the 
way  she  was,  who  was  the  reason 
why  Sheila  and  I had  no  children 
and  never  would  have. 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


39 


At  last  the  door  clicked  and  Dina 
came  out.  Exactly  five  feet,  dark- 
haired, she  had  the  unsophisticated 
beauty  that  sometimes  occurs  in  the 
feeble-minded.  She  also  had  a highly 
provocative  body  that  would  create 
a lot  of  problems  soon,  though  they 
hadn’t  caused  trouble  yet.  Not  all 
men  could  be  expected  to  keep  their 
hands  off  such  an  attractive  creature 
simply  because  there  was  a short- 
circuit  in  her  head. 

She  wore  a faded  cotton  dress  far 
too  small  for  her,  split  down  the 
front  and  unfastened  at  the  back, 
because  there  was  no  possibility  of 
getting  the  buttons  to  close.  Her  feet 
were  bare. 

“Now  listen,”  I said  more  harshly 
than  usual,  “I  have  to  get  back  to 
work.  Will  you  promise,  Dina,  word 
of  honor,  to  go  to  the  summerhouse 
and  stay  there  till  I get  home  again?” 

“But  the  summerhouse  is  near  the 
wood.” 

“Fairies  only  come  out  at  night. 
You  never  saw  fairies  in  the  daytime, 
now,  did  you?” 

She  frowned.  It  was  quite  true 
that  she  had  never  seen  fairies  in 
the  daytime. 

If  she  gave  her  word  she  would 
keep  it.  She  was  trying  to  figure  out 
a loophole  that  would  enable  her  to 
do  what  she  liked  without  exactly 
breaking  a promise.  If  she  could  find 
one,  she’d  promise. 

“Word  of  honor?”  I insisted. 

“Oh,  all  right,”  she  said.  “Now?” 

“Now.” 

She  scampered  downstairs,  quite 
content  again  already.  She  would  be 
able  to  stay  in  the  summerhouse  all 
afternoon,  talking  to  herself  or  play- 


ing with  the  dolls  she  had  there,  with- 
out any  feeling  that  she  was  being 
confined,  or  even  that  she’d  done 
anything  to  be  confined  for. 

On  the  point  of  telling  Sheila  that 
Jota  was  coming,  I decided  it  would 
be  wise  to  wait  for  a better  moment. 
“See  you,  honey,”  I said  and  leaned 
forward  to  peck  her  cheek. 

She  leaned  back,  avoiding  me. 
“Honey,”  she  said.  “Everybody  is 
‘honey.’  I’m  ‘honey,’  Dina’^  ‘honey.’ 
Am  I like  her?  Do  you  think  of  me 
like  her?” 

I didn’t  want  to  get  involved  in 
anything.  “Bye,  Sheila,”  I said  and 
went  back  to  the  car. 

I had  just  crossed  the  Old  Bridge 
when  the  engine  coughed  and 
died. 

I cursed  silently.  When  I had  left 
the  car  in  the  lot  I had  known  per- 
fectly well  I’d  have  to  stop  at  the 
filling  station  on  my  way  home,  and 
I would  have,  if  I hadn’t  been  called 
out  unexpectedly  to  deal  with  a do- 
mestic crisis. 

I was  about  as  far  from  a garage 
as  I could  be  in  Shuteley.  The  street 
I was  on  was  so  narrow  that  plan- 
ning permission  for  garages  had  been 
refused,  there  being  no  room  for 
cars  to  stop  and  fill  up.  I’d  have  to 
walk  back  to  the  office  and  phone 
a garage  to  pick  the  car  up. 

I left  the  key  in  the  car  and  started 
walking.  No  one  would  touch  the 
car,  not  in  Shuteley.  Kids  might,  but 
the  car  would  be  picked  up  before 
the  Grammar  School  came  out. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  on  the  out- 
skirts of  town,  there  was  very  little 
traffic  and  few  pedestrians,  for  there 


40 


IF 


were  no  shops  out  here,  and  Shuteley 
was  not  on  the  main  route  from  any- 
where important  to  anywhere  else. 
In  fact,  there  was  nobody  else  in 
sight  but  one  girl,  and  my  eyes  rested 
on  her  and  didn’t  register  a thing, 
because  I was  thinking  about  Dina 
and  Sheila  and  me  and  wondering 
gloomily  if  there  was  any  solution  to 
the  age-old  problem  of  two  women 
in  one  house. 

I was  also  envying  Jota,  who  got 
his  girls  on  a conveniently  tempor- 
ary basis  (invariably  stunning  and 
wildly  cooperative  girls  at  that)  and 
who  got  them  in  every  country  on 
the  map,  plus  a few  that  weren’t. 

Ail  in  all,  I was  pretty  sorry  for 
myself.  It  wasn’t  my  fault  that  my 
father  had  married  a woman  who 
was  already  close  to  insanity  and 
went  closer.  It  wasn’t  my  fault  he 
escaped  the  problems  he  had  created 
by  dying.  It  wasn’t  my  fault  Dina 
was  the  way  she  was.  It  wasn’t  my 
fault  Sheila  and  I didn’t  dare  have 
children. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  problems, 
unlike  those  of  everybody  else,  had 
been  created  for  me  and  were  no 
fault  of  mine. 

Suddenly  I blinked  and  looked 
again  at  the  girl  coming  toward  me. 

Ill 

She  was  not  the  girl  in  the  pink 
suit.  Although  I had  seen  that  girl 
only  across  the  street  and  from  a 
second-story  window,  one  thing  I 
was  sure  of  was  that  she  had  blue- 
black  hair.  This  was  a near-blonde 
of  about  eighteen,  wearing  a green 
dress.  Or  was  she? 


At  the  moment,  beyond  all  doubt, 
she  was.  She  was  very  tall  and  not 
particularly  attractive  — just  a girl 
who  would  not  as  a rule  attract  a 
second  glance,  unless  on  account  of 
her  height. 

She  came  level  with  me,  not  pay- 
ing the  slightest  attention  to  me.  And 
that  must  have  been  an  act,  because 
when  a girl  passes  a man  goggling 
at  her  with  all  three  eyes,  it  just 
isn’t  possible  for  her  not  to  notice 
him  at  all. 

And  as  she  passed  me,  it  happened 
again.  Not  the  same  thing  — it  never 
seemed  to  be  the  same  thing.  This 
time,  side-on,  I saw  palely-tanned 
flesh  from  ankles  to  armpit,  unin- 
terrupted. 

When  she  had  passed,  I swung 
round,  of  course.  However,  what- 
ever I’d  seen  or  thought  I’d  scjn, 
all  there  was  to  be  seen  now,  though 
I watched  her  out  of  sight,  was  a 
very  tall  girl  in  an  ordinary  green 
dress,  wearing  ordinary  shoes.  The 
only  thing  that  was  slightly  unusual 
was  that  I could  swear  she  wasn’t 
wearing  nylons. 

She  did  have,  too  — and  this  was 
the  first  time  I noticed  it  — a certain 
baffling  elegance,  or  smartness,  or 
neatness.  As  I said,  she  wasn’t  a 
particularly  pretty  girl,  and  though 
not  fat,  she  didn’t  have  a sensational 
figure.  Yet  there  was  something 
about  her  that  reminded  me  of  the 
difference  I had  vaguely  sensed  when 
Sheila  had  pointed  out  to  me  a wom- 
an in  a Paris  creation  and  a woman 
trying  hard  to  look  as  if  she  was  in 
a Paris  creation. 

Whatever  it  was  that  women 
wanted  to  have  when  they  dressed 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


41 


up,  this  girl  had  it.  Even  if  she  had 
very  little  else  to  contribute. 

As  I walked  on,  for  a moment 
an  old  shadow  darkened  my  mind. 
Mentally  I was  normal,  indeed  well 
above  average.  I’d  been  told  after 
physical  and  psychiatric  examinations 
that  there  was  no  trace  of  psychosis 
or  anything  in  that  terrifying  area, 
no  brain  damage,  no  malformation. 
Yet  no  one  with  a background  like 
mine  could  escape  occasional  grim 
doubts  and  fears. 

I dismissed  the  idea  for  a moment, 
only  to  find  it  creeping  back  when  I 
remembered  that  the  only  other  per- 
son who  had  seen  this  kind  of  phe- 
nomenon was  Tommy.  Maybe  this 
was  something  that  happened  only 
to  people  like  Tommy  and  Dina  and 
me. 

Tommy  had  seen  something  — 
once.  I had  seen  something  — twice. 
And  Dina  had  seen  something.  Fair- 
ies, she  said.  Or  rather,  a “fairy 
ring.” 

Nobody  else,  apparently,  had  seen 
anything. 

I went  back  to  the  office,  called 
the  Central  Garage  and  gave  in- 
structions about  my  car.  Then  I 
worked  hard  for  all  of  an  hour. 

When  the  phone  rang  I answered 
absently,  still  able  to  concentrate 
fairly  successfully  on  insurance  — 
for  the  last  tiipe  in  weeks. 

“Val,”  said  Sheila,  “now  the  elec- 
trician jhas  to  get  into  the  summer- 
house.” 

“Oh,  hell,”  I groaned. 

I should  have  known.  The  wiring 
in  our  house  dated  back  with 
the  rest  of  the  house,  I strongly 


suspected,  to  the  time  of  Queen 
Anne.  I’d  probably  have  let  it  be 
as  long  as  it  worked,  but  a FLAG 
executive  from  London,  paying  a 
semi-social  call,  happened  to  notice 
the  wiring  in  the  house  and  hinted 
strongly  that  it  was  hardly  the  thing 
for  the  local  insurance  manager  to 
have  an  electrical  system  in  his  own 
house  that  constituted  a greater  fire 
risk  than  a moat  filled  with  crude 
oil.  So  we  had  called  in  Mr^  Jerome. 

The  caible  out  to  the  summerhouse 
was  probably  more  dangerous  even 
than  anything  in  the  house  itself. 

Obviously  Sheila  had  already  ask- 
ed Dina  to  let  the  electrician  in.  In 
childish  triumph,  Dina  saw  how  to 
score  over  Sheila  after  all.  Dina  had 
promised  to  stay  in  the  summerhouse 
till  I got  back.  So  she’d  keep  her 
promise.  Come  hell  or  high  water, 
she’d  barricade  herself  in  and  stay 
where  she’d  promised  to  stay. 

“I  can’t  come  again,”  I said. 
“Can’t  he  come  back  tomorrow?” 

“He  says  if  he  doesn’t  finish  today 
he  won’t  get  back  for  a week.” 

“Well,  get  her  out,”  I said  in  sud- 
den irritation.  “Don’t  keep  calling 
me.” 

“She’s  your  sister.” 

“Sure,  but  you’re  there  and  I’m 
here.  Surely  you  can  outsmart  some- 
one like  Dina?” 

“Get  her  out,  you  said?”  Sheila 
retorted  in  a hard  voice.  “Okay. 
I’ll  get  her  out.  I’m  bigger  than  she 

is,  and  older,  and  much  tougher.  I’ll 
get  her  out.  And  I’m  going  to  enjoy 

it.  I’m  going  to  have  the  time  of  my 
life.” 

There  was  something  vicious 
about  the  chick  as  she  hung  up. 


42 


IF 


I didn’t  care.  I was  fed  up  with 
Sheila  and  Dina.  Why  couldn’t  either 
of  them,  just  once,  in  their  different 
ways,  leave  me  alone?  Sheila  was 
always  with  me,  Dina  was  always 
with  me.  I couldn’t  settle  down  to 
my  work  any  morning  or  any  after- 
noon with  the  slightest  confidence 
that  I wouldn’t  suddenly  be  called 
upon  to  deal  with  a Sheila  problem 
or  a Dina  problem. 

Rather  wildly,  I thought:  why 
couldn’t  Sheila  and  Dina  fight  to 
the  death  so  that  there  would  be 
only  one  of  them  left?  I could  render 
unto  Sheila  the  things  that  were 
Sheila’s  only  if  Dina  didn’t  interfere 
— and  vice  versa. 

But  could  I put  Dina  in  an  insti- 
tution? No.  Apart  from  anything 
else,  she  was  too  innocently  reason- 
able. Even  if  I wanted  to  do  it,  I 
doubted  if  Dina  could  be  certified. 
She  wasn’t  even  feeble-minded  in  the 
usual  sense.  In  many  ways  she  was 
quick  and  shrewd.  In  no  way  was 
she  slow.  She  was  quite  a bright 
eight-year-old.  Only  she  happened 
to  have  a body  nine  years  older. 

Grimly  I forced  myself  to  work. 
But  my  heart  wasn’t  in  it. 

rv 

Business  with  an  agent  kept  me 
at  the  office  until  about  seven, 
and  when  we  were  through  I took 
him  for  a drink.  Since  he  didn’t  like 
noisy  pubs  we  went  to  the  the 
cocktail  lounge.  The  Copper  Beech. 

The  place  was  empty  when  we 
entered.  People  going  for  a drink 
on  their  way  home  went  to  the  pubs. 
The  Copper  Beech,  all  glass  and 


chromium  and  plastic  and  inflated 
prices,  catered  mostly  for  couples 
and  parties  having  a^night  out,  from 
eight  o’clock  onwards. 

The  agent  gulped  his  beer  and 
departed,  and  I finished  my  pint  of 
bitter  in  more  leisurely  fashion.  I 
was  downing  the  last  drop  whem  a 
party  of  kids  in  their  late  teens  came 
in,  quietly  for  kids, 'looked  around 
and  marched  to  the  back. 

They  were  all  in  shorts  and 
blouses,  and  for  a moment  I thought 
they  were  Grammar  School  seniors. 
Then  I saw  that  they  were  all  about 
eighteen  or  over,  too  old  and  far  too 
tall  to  be  school  kids.  All  the  men 
were  over  six  feet,  and  the  girls 
not  much  less. 

With  merely  a glance  at  them  I 
was  rising  to  go.  In  Shuteley  in  sum- 
mer we  saw  hundreds  of  campers, 
hikers  and  cyclists. 

Then  I saw  that  one  of  the  girls 
was  the  girl  in  the  green  dress,  and 
another,  the  only  one  who  was  not 
tall,  had  blue-black  hair. 

I ordered  another  pint  and  sat 
down  again.  The  bartender  rapped 
on  a partition  behind  him  and  a 
waitress  in  a black  frock  came  to 
attend  to  the  new  customers. 

There  were  eight  boys  and  eight 
girls.  They  weren’t  noisy,  and  they 
evidently  intended  to  keep  strictly 
to  themselves,  for  they  sat  together 
in  a corner  round  one  table  and 
only  one  of  them  spoke  to  the  wait- 
ress, giving  the  order.  The  others 
didn’t  even  talk  among  themselves 
until  she  left  them.  Then  they  started 
talking  and  laughing  like  any  other 
kids,  only  more  quietly,  as  if  afraid 
they’d  be  overheard. 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


43 


The  girl  I had  seen  wearing  the 
extraordinary  green  dress  was  now 
clad  like  the  ^others.  She  had  not 
looked  at  me  and  perhaps  wouldn’t 
have  known  me  if  she  did,  because 
earlier,  in  the  afternoon,  she  had 
gone  to  a lot  of  trouble  not  to  look 
at  me  at  all. 

Now  I saw  that  they  weren’t  ex- 
actly like  any  other  group  of  young 
campers  after  all. 

I wouldn’t  have  noticed  anything 
out  of  the  ordinary  if  I hadn’t  had 
a spur  to  my  curiosity.  Nobody 
else  did.  As  it  was,  I saw  for  the 
second  time  a curious  immaculacy 
which  seemed  to  be  common  to  them 
all.  Every  one  of  these  kids  was  a 
glossy,  spotless,  highly-polished  mo- 
del of  a teenage  camper. 

I thought  about  that  and  remem- 
bered where  I’d  seen  the  same  kind 
of  glossy  unreality  before. 

A pretty  girl  really  on  a jungle 
safari  might  conceivably  spend 
most  of  her  time  in  a leopard-skin 
swimsuit  or  a white  suntop  and 
shorts,  though  it’s  unlikely.  But  un- 
like actresses  in  safari  movies,  she 
simply  could  not  go  on  day  after 
day  looking  as  if  she’d  just  stepped 
from  her  dressing-room. 

That  was  it.  That  was  exactly  it. 
The  boys  in  this  group  had  every 
hair  slick  In  place.  Their  shirts  were 
dazzling.  There  wasn’t  a spot  even 
on  their  shoes.  The  girls  weren’t  in 
the  usual  motley  collection  of  loose 
sweaters,  tight  sweaters  and  rumpled 
shorts.  Everything  anyone  wore  had 
been  made  to  measure,  and  there 
wasn’t  a crease  to  be  seen  among 
the  lot  of  them. 


A small  thing?  Certainly.  A small, 
impossible  thing.  Did  these  kids  have 
dressing-rooms  right  outside  The 
Copper  Beech? 

Two  or  three  of  the  girls  were 
pretty,  and  one  had  a one-in-a-million 
face.  Out  of  any  large  group  of  girls 
you  could  pick  a dozen  of  more  or 
less  uniform  paettiness,  attractive 
through  the  possession  of  firm  young 
bodies  and  regular  features,  well- 
shaped eyebrows,  small  noses,  soft 
mouths.  But  it  would  be  a matter 
of  chance  if,  even  in  a hundred 
thousand  girls,  you’d  find  one  with 
both  the  individuality  to  make  her 
unmistakable  and  unforgettable  and 
the  beauty  to  go  with  it. 

One  girl  had  the  kind  of  face  that 
could  launch  a thousand  nuclear 
submarines. 

She  had  blue-black  hair,  very 
white  skin,  and  was  probably  the 
girl  who  for  me  had  started  it  all, 
the  girl  in  the  pink  suit.  But  I 
couldn’t  be  sure.  Apart  from  her 
beauty,  other  things  set  her  slightly 
apart  from  the  rest.  She  was  only 
about  five  feet  four,  easily  the  small- 
est in  the  group.  She  was  pale  and 
all  the  others  were  tanned.  She  might 
have  been  a little  older  than  the 
others.  She  was  treated  with  a cer- 
tain slight  deference.  And  despite 
what  I’ve  been  saying  about  them, 
she  made  the  others  look  untidy. 

I sipped  my  beer,  not  inviting  con- 
versation with  the  bartender,  who 
was  busy  anyway.  As  it  happened 
I’d  been  sitting  facing  the  far  corner 
when  the  kids  entered  and  could 
therefore  go  on  looking  in  their  di- 
rection without  showing  undue  cur- 
iosity. 


44 


IF 


I managed  to  pick  up  a few  words. 
They  were  talking  about  “a  duel.” 
A duel,  they  thought,  would  be  fun. 
Some  argued,  said  it  was  a crazy 
idea. 

Evidently  they’d  seen  the  plaque 
on  one  of  the  old  houses  round  the 
green.  One  of  the  last  duels  in  Eng- 
land had  been  fought  on  the  village 
green,  between  the  squire  and  a 
wealthy  traveller  who  both  fancied 
the  same  serving  wench.  Neither  of 
them  got  her.  They  were  both  fatally 
wounded,  and  for  thirty  years  or  so 
(until  the  incident  became  romantic, 
quaint,  something  to  be  proud  of) 
the  affair  was  hushed  up. 

There  was  some  reference  to 
“Greg”,  who  was  not  present.  (So 
there  were  more  of  them) . And 
glances  were  cast  at  Snow  White 
when  he  was  mentioned,  puzzling 
glances  which  I couldn’t  fathom. 

Snow  White  and  the  giants,  I 
thought.  Snow  White  is  the  fair- 
est in  the  land.  She  had  blue-black 
hair,  too.  Snow  White,  dwarf  among 
giants. 

Watching  as  casually  as  I could, 
I noticed  something  else. 

Nobody  smoked.  And  nobody 
drank  beer; 

It  makes  sense  not  to  start  smok- 
ing now  that  we  know  what  we 
know.  But  could  you  get  sixteen 
sensible  kids  all  in  one  group? 

As  for  the  beer  question  . . . 
quite  a few  of  the  youngsters  had 
soft  drinks.  Others  had  what  looked 
like  cocktails:  sherry,  port,  whiskey, 
rum.  Obviously  they  were  not  tee- 
totallers. 

Out  of  sixteen  campers,  surely  at 


least  three  or  four  would  drink  beer 
on  a hot  summer  evening? 

I had  finished  my  beer  again.  It 
was  a small  moment  of  crisis.  Was 
I to  walk  boldly  up  to  Snow  White 
and  the  giants  and  say:  ^AU  is 
discovered.  You  are  not  what  you 
seem,”  or  buy  another  beCT  and  stay 
quietly  watching  them?* 

I did  neither.  I stood  up  to  go. 

And  as  I stood  up,  Snow  White 
glanced  at  me  and  recognized  me. 
I saw  it  in  her  face,  althougjh  the 
moment  after  recognition  she  looked 
casually  around  as  if  she’d  merely 
been  giving  the  place  the  once-over. 

But  I knew  I wasn’t  mistaken. 

One  thing  was  certain.  That  ex- 
pression, half  startled,  half  inter- 
ested, had  not  come  over  her  face 
simply  because  she  had  seen  me  in 
the  upstairs  window  of  the  Red  Lion. 
For  one  thing,  I hadn’t  seen  her 
look  up.  For  another,  it  wasn’t  just 
an  Fve-seen-you-before-softiewhere 
expression. 

She  knew  me.  She  hadn’t  expected 
to  see  me,  but  the  moment  she  did, 
she  thought  at  once:  Thafs  Val 
Mathers  . . . and  a lot  more. 

I wished  I knew  what  the  lot  was. 

I’d  certainly  have  gone  over  and 
spoken  to  her,  but  for  the  fifteen 
giants.  You  don’t  use  the  “Haven’t 
we  met  before?”  routine  when  the 
girl  has  fifteen  friends  with  her. 

Instead,  I went  home. 

As  I closed  the  garage  door  after 
driving  home,  Dina  rushed  up 
to  me.  She  was  still  in  her  Cinderella 
dress,  but  her  arms  and  legs  were 
swathed  in  bandages  which  she  kad 
obviously  put  on  herself. 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


45 


“She  fait  me,”  Dina  panted.  “She 
hit  me  and  scratched  me  and  threw 
me  out.” 

“Now,  Dina  — ” I began. 

“Sflie  got  in  through  a window 
and  pushed  me  and  hit  me  and 
scratched  me,  pulled  my  hair;  and  I 
couldn’t  stay  in  the  summerhouse.” 

“Forget  it,  Dina,”  I said  wearily. 

“It  was  her  fault  I couldn’t  keep 
my  promise.  She  — ” 

“Dina,  I’m  not  interested,”  I said 
finmily.  “You  knew  there  was  a man 
working  in  the  house.  You  knew  he 
had  to  get  into  your  room  and  the 
summerhouse  later.  There  was  no 
need  for  any  trouble  if  you’d  done 
as  you  were  told.” 

“I  do  what  you  tell  me,  don’t  I? 
You  told  me  to  stay  in  the  summer- 
house, only  she  wouldn’t  let  me.” 

At  that  moment  Sheila  came  round 
the  front  of  the  house.  She  looked 
at  me  uncertainly,  ready  to  explain, 
or  fight,  or  refuse  to  say  anything, 
depending  on  my  attitude.  . 

“Dina,”  I said,  “go  and  get 
dressed.” 

“Aren’t  you  going  to  — ” 

“I’m  not  going  to  do  anything.  Go 
and  get  dressed.  Now.  And  no  argu- 
ment.” 

Hurt,  Dina  not  only  went  but 
stayed  in  her  room  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  sulking. 

Sheila  and  I had  an  unusually 
pleasant  evening  on  our  own  for 
once.  I opened  a bottle  of  Rudes- 
heimer  and  then  a bottle  of  Nier- 
steiner,  and  we  got  pleasantly  merry. 

At  last  I thought  ^e  circumstances 
were  right  and  told  Sheila  that  Jota 
was  coming  back  to  Shuleley. 

They  weren’t  right  enough.  Sheila’s 


face  set  hard  and  she  said:  “For 
how  long?” 

“He  didn’t  say.” 

“He’s  not  staying  here.” 

“No.  He’s  going  to  ask  Gil  — ” 
“If  he  visits  this  house.  I’ll  stay 
in  my  room  till  he’s  gone.” 

“Sheila,  he  promised  — ” 

"'He  promised,”  she  said  fiercely. 
She  stood  up  and  began  to  provd 
about,  clenching  and  unclenching  her 
hands.  Sheila  didn’t  often  hit  the 
roof,  but  when  she  did  she  was  in- 
clined to  go  right  through  it.  “I 
never  told  you  why  I was  so  wild 
that  time,  Val.  Not  because  Jota 
made  a pass  at  me.  If  a man  like 
him  never  made  a pass  at  me.  I’d 
know  that  I’d  better  take  up  tat- 
ting. Not  even  because  he  used  your 
trust  to  get  me  in  a situation  where 
those  horrible  things  could  happen. 
But  because  when  you  came  back, 
when  you  walked  in  on  that  ...” 
She  had  worked  herself  up  to 
such  a pitch  that  for  the  moment 
she  couldn’t  go  on.  Her  color  was 
high,  her  chest  was  heaving,  and  I 
thought  it  was  a long  time  since  I 
had  seen  her  look  so  marvelous. 

Of  course  I’d  never  forget  that 
time  when  I found  Jota  quite  crudely 
trying  to  rape  my  wife.  It  had  been 
horrible  and  it  had  been  incredible. 
I’d  always  thought,  not  so  much  that 
Jota  would  never  touch  Sheila  be- 
cause she  was  my  wife  as  that  if 
he  did  feel  it  coming  on,  he’d  tell 
me.  “Val,  I want  Sheila.  I’m  going 
to  have  her.”  That  was  Iota’s  way. 
I’d  been  afraid  of  that. 

I’d  never  thought  for  a moment 
it  would  happen  the  way  it  did  — 
Jota,  having  got  me  out  of  the  way 


46 


IF 


by  a brazen  lie,  which  I discovered 
only  because  the  person  I was  going 
to  see  happened  to  meet  me  in  the 
street,  fighting  coarsely  with  his  best 
friend’s  wife,  his  cousin’s  wife,  like 
a sex  criminal. 

Sheila,  under  control  again,  broke 
into  my  thoughts.  “You  were  sur- 
prised, weren’t  you?”  she  said. 

That  was  an  understatement.  “I 
couldn’t  believe  it,”  I said.  “But  when 
I did,  I — ’’ 

“Yes,  we’re  not  talking  about  that. 
That  was  all  right.  You  threw  him 
about  so  efficiently  I was  quite 
cheered  up.  Never  thought  you  could 
do  that  sort  of  thing,  Val.  I was 
proud  of  you  then.  And  I didn’t 
mind  seeing  Jota  hurt,  not  in  the 
slightest.  That  bit  of  it  was  fine  . . . 
Let’s  go  back  a bit.  You  were  sur- 
prised.” 

I waited  uneasily,  vaguely  sensing 
what  she  was  getting  at. 

“You  were  surprised  because  I 
was  fighting,”  Sheila  said.  “You  were 
astonished  because  I was  'being  half 
killed  and  still  went  on  resisting.  You 
were  certain  that  Jota  merely  had  to 
cast  a lustful  eye  on  any  girl,  and 
she’d  immediately  surrender  with  a 
sense  of  profound  gratitude.” 

It  was  true,  but  I couldn’t  admit 
it.  “I  never  said  — ” 

“Val,  I know  perfectly  well  what 
you  never  said.  I also  know  what 
you  did  say.  Afterwards,  when  we 
had  to  talk,  when  we  had  to  pretend 
to  be  civilized  again  and  work  out 
whether  Jota  was  to  be  charged  with 
assault,  or  what  — that’s  when  you 
gave  yourself  away.  All  you  were 
concerned  with  was  Jota.  He  had  to 


promise.  He  had  to  go  away.  He 
was  the  one  to  be  convinced  beyond 
a shadow  of  doubt  that  nothing  re- 
motely like  that  must  ever  happen 
again.  And  when  he  accepted  all 
that,  you  were  satisfied.” 

I just  looked  back  at  her. 

“Nothing  about  me,”  she  said 
bleakly.  “You  couldn’t  ^st  me.  If 
Jota  tried  again,  next  time  I’d  ob- 
viously leap  into  his  arms.” 

“I  never  said  — ” 

“Oh,  Val,  who  cares  what  you 
never  said?  Your  whole  attitude 
made  it  a hundred  per  cent  clear. 
Jota  was  the  one  to  handle  somehow. 
I didn’t  matter  at  all.  Whatever  Jota 
decided  was  as  good  as  done.  You 
had  to  work  on  Jota.  I was  merely 
a pawn  in  the  game,  if  that.” 

I couldn’t  argue  convincingly,  be- 
cause she  was  working  a vein  of 
truth.  No  girl  ever  said  no  to  Jota. 
No  girl  ever  could.  Whoever  she  was. 
Whatever  the  circumstances.  And  it 
was  entirely  correct  that  my  surprise 
on  that  horrible  night  had  been 
due  largely  to  Sheila’s  desperate  re- 
sistance. I frankly  couldn’t  under- 
stand that.  Why  had  a girl  wlio  had 
never  resisted  me  resist  Jota? 

A diversion  was  available.  “Why 
did  you  wait  two  years  to  tell  me 
this?”  I asked. 

She  sighed  and  sat  down,  crossing 
her  legs.  All  the  fire  had  gone  out 
of  her.  She  wasn’t  going  through 
the  roof  this  time.  “Some  things  you 
can’t  take  back,  not  ever,  even  if 
you  want  to.  Two  years  ago,  we 
might  have  been  on  the  threshold  of 
a great  new  understanding.  Now  we 
know  we  weren’t.  You  won’t  have 
children,  though  I ache  for  them. 

47 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


And  Dina’s  getting  worse  every  day.” 
I was  grateful  to  her  for  phrasing 
the  problem  of  Dina  like  that. 
“Dina’s  getting  worse  every  day.” 
If  she’d  wanted  to  be  venomous, 
there  were  a thousand  other  things 
she  could  have  said  about  Dina, 
seven  hundred  of  them  not  unjust. 
“Sheila,”  I said,  “I  like  you.” 

She  smiled  faintly.  “I  know.  You 
couldn’t  quite  say  ‘love,’  because 
you’re  being  sincere  tonight.  And 
I put  you  off  your  stroke  earlier 
when  I stopped  saying  ‘honey.’  You’ll 
never  call  me  ‘'honey’  again.  You’ll 
be  careful,  cautious,  like  a good  in- 
surance manager,  and  from  now  on 
you’ll  call  Dina  Dina  and  me  Sheila.” 
There  wasn’t  much  to  say  to  that, 
so  I went  for  a brief  stroll. 

V 

Remembering  Dina’s  story  about 
fairies  in  the  wood,  I walked 
down  the  garden,  not  expecting  to 
see  anything  at  all. 

The  river  Shute,  meandering  tor- 
tuously across  flat  country  and 
through  woods,  half  enclosed  our 
house  in  the  inner  walls  of  a W bend. 
As  far  as  I knew  the  house  had 
never  been  flooded,  though  the  river 
had  been  known  to  reach  the  gar- 
den. 

Behind  our  garden,  in  the  apex 
of  th6  W,  was  a small  patch  of  trees 
and  scrub  which  would  have  been 
very  popular  with  courting  couples, 
but  for  the  fact  that  they  couldn’t 
get  into  it.  The  river  curved  round 
it,  and  on  the  land  side  the  only  en- 
try was  through  our  garden.  And 
we  had  high,  thick  hedges. 


It  was  a piece  of  wasteland  w'hioh 
was  of  no  use  to  anybody.  The  local 
landowner  had  tried  to  sell  it  to  us^ 
but  we  didn’t  want  it.  Anyway,  as 
Dina  said  with  childish  shrewdness: 
“Why  buy  it  when  it’s  ours  any- 
way?” 

At  the  fence  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  I stopped. 

Was  it  imagination,  or  was  there 
a faint  glow  in  the  copse? 

It  wasn’t  a fire,  there  was  no 
moon,  and  it  could  hardly  be  fairies 
— though  I now  understood  Dina’s 
story.  To  her,  what  else  could  a 
glow  in  the  copse  at  night  mean 
but  fairies? 

I climbed  the  fence  and  advanced 
slowly. 

The  glow  was  very  faint  and  would 
never  have  been  noticed  on  a night 
which  was  not  completely  dark.  The 
odd  thing  about  it  was  it  didn’t  seem 
to  have  a source.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  glow.  I walked  through  it, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  it,  looked  in 
all  directions,  and  there  was  nothing 
but  a faint  blue  radiance. 

I ran  back  to  the  fence,  climbed 
it  and  hurried  back  to  the  house. 

Sheila  was  in  the  bedroom,  in  a 
shortie  nightdress  (in  this  extraordin- 
ary summer,  most  people  wore  less 
than  that  at  night),  about  to  go  to 
bed.  We  had  left  a very  important 
discussion  hanging  in  the  air.  But 
this  was  something  I had  to  share 
with  somebody,  and  Sheila  was  my 
wife. 

“Sheila,”  I said  breathlessly,  “I 
want  you  to  come  and  look  at  some- 
thing outside.” 

“Where?  Not  in  the  garden,  for 
heaven’s  sake?” 


48 


IF 


“In  the  copse.” 

She  laughed  in  protest.  “Like 
this?” 

“It’ll  cool  you  down.  And  no  one 
can  see.” 

On  the  point  of  protesting  fmther, 
she  saw  I was  deadly  serious  and 
realized  it  would  probably  be  quick- 
er in  the  end  to  humor  me  than  to 
argue  with  me.  She  put  on  shoes  and 
we  went  down  the  garden. 

I was  afraid  it  was  going  to  be  like 
those  frustrating  incidents  in  de- 
tective stories  where  the  hero  takes 
the  cops  to  the  murder  apartment, 
only  to  find  the  'body’s  gone,  the 
signs  of  a struggle  have  been  re- 
moved, and  even  the  bloodstains  have 
vanished. 

However,  as  I helped  Sheila  over 
the  fence  she  saw  the  glow  and  sud- 
denly became  reluctant  to  go  further 
because  she  thought  there  was  some- 
thing instead  of  because  she  thou|ht 
there  wasn’t. 

“What  is  it?”  she  whispered,  mak- 
ing no  move  forward. 

“I  don’t  know.  You  do  see  it?” 

“Of  course  I see  it.  But  what  is 
it?” 

After  a moment  or  two  she  came 
further  into  the  copse  with  me,  and 
together  we'  tried  all  the  things  I 
had  already  tried  alone  — looking 
among  the  branches  for  the  source 
of  the  light,  at  the  sky  through  the 
leaves,  at  the  still  river  beyond,  under 
the  bushes. 

Sheila’s  reaction^  was  exactly  the 
opposite  of  mine.  The  less  I under- 
stood the  glow,  the  more  I wanted 
to  find  out  about  it.  More  practically, 
perhaps,  Sheila  satisfied  herself  that 

SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


49 


it  was  a mystery  and  was  then  quite 
prepaied  to  give  up. 

“WeU,  we’ve  looked,”  she  said  rea- 
sonalbly.  “There’s  nothing  else  to  see. 
Whatever  it  is,  it’s  staying  put.  Let’s 
go  to  ibed  and  look  in  the  morning.” 
And  that’s  what  we  did.  I wasn’t 
sorry,  though,  that  I’d  made  Sheila 
come  and  look.  I wasn’t  imagining 
things.  There  was  a radiance  in  the 
wood  with  no  source. 

Later,  Sheila  wanted  to  talk  about 
something,  but  it  wasn’t  the  radiance. 

“I  did  hurt  her,  Val,”  she  said, 
watching  me.  “I’m  bigger  than  she 
is  and  a lot  stronger.  I thought,  well, 
after  all,  she’s  a naughty  kid  and 
she  needs  a lesson.  I meant  to  beat 
her  up,  and  I thought  it  was  going 
to  be  fun,  like  that  time  when  ...” 
She  stopped,  and  although  I had 
followed  her  thought  I said  nothing. 
She  was  thinking  of  that  other  time 
when  I had  thrown  Iota  all  over  the 
place,  fighting  mad,  hardly  knowing 
what  I was  doing;  and  Sheila  had 
watched  and  been  quite  happy  about 
it,  because  it  was  me  who  was  doing 
the  throwing  and  Jota  who  was  being 
thrown,  and  because  of  what  had 
happened  before  that. 

But  Dina  wasn’t  quite  the  same. 

“It  didn’t  work?”  I said. 

“No.” 

“I  didn’t  think  it  would.” 

“Well  . . . don’t  you  mind?  Was 
I terribly  wrong  to  do  what  I did?” 

, “I  don’t  know.  I don’t  suppose 
so.  When  any  kid’s  on  the  wrong 
track  you  talk  to  him,  try  to  per- 
suade him,  and  I guess  if  you  don’t 
try  giving  him  a good  hiding  you’re 
missing  a bet.  But  you  can’t  beat 
sense  into  Dina.” 


“But  you  don’t  mind?”  Sheila  in- 
sisted. 

“I  don’t  see  that  it’s  anything  to 
do  with  me,”  I said. 

When  we  got  to  bed,  more  friend- 
ly toward  each  other  than  for  a long 
time,  I thought  it  would  be  a good 
idea  to  do  something  about  it.  But 
nothing  happened,  and  Sheila  made 
no  move,  merely  saying  “Good 
night”  in  a tone  which  seemed  to 
contain  finality.  So  a chance  was 
lost,  like  a thousand  others. 

VI 

Before  breakfast  next  morning  I 
was  back  in  the  wood.  Sheila 
didn’t  come  with  me.  She  said  that 
if  I found  anything  I could  tell  her, 
and  she’d  take  my  word  for  it. 

I found  absolutely  nothing.  The 
copse  was  exactly  as  it  has  always 
been,  and  in  daylight  no  radiance 
could  be  detected.  By  the  time  it 
occurred  to  me  to  look  for  footprints 
or  other  signs  that  people  might  have 
been  there  recently.  I’d  done  so  much 
stamping  around  that  the  search  was 
futile.  Besides,  hardly  anything  grew 
under  the  trees,  and  the  thick,  springy 
leaf-mold  did  not  retain  tracks  well. 

When  I got  back,  Sheila  merely 
said:  “It  must  have  been  some  kind 
of  natural  phosphorescence.  One  egg 
or  two?” 

“Phosphorescence  has  a source, 
like  any  other  light,”  I insisted. 

“Well,  look  again  tonight.  I won- 
der if  Dina  will  be  down  in  the  next 
ten  minutes?  It’s  no  use  calling  her, 
of  course.” 

Nobody  at  the  office  mentioned 
any  unusual  incidents  of  the  day 


50 


IF 


before.  Being  the  boss,  I didn’t  hear 
the  gossip.  If  Sally  Henry,  my  sec- 
retary, hadn’t  be^  on  holiday  I 
could  have  asked  her  about  the  morn- 
ing’s topics.  Wilma  Shelly,  who  was 
standing  in  for  her,  was  too  junior 
for  me  to  confide  in  her. 

I wasn’t  a confident  boss.  I was 
efficient,  of  course,  or  I’d  never  have 
reached  my  present  position.  But  I 
didn’t  possess  the  sheer  self-assurance 
that  every  good  boss  has  to  have, 
the  feeling  that  he’s  a boss  by  right, 
the  unquestioning,  unquestioned  con- 
viction that  things  will  always  be 
done  his  way,  the  right  way,  the  only 
way. 

After  an  hour’s  correspondence, 
there  was  a lull,  and  I considered 
phoning  Gil  Carswell.  But  Gil,  far 
less  self-confident  than  me,  had  not 
become  the  boss,  and  I didn’t  like 
to  call  him  at  the  bank  unless  the 
matter  was  really  urgent.  That  was 
why  I’d  sent  the  message  the  day 
before  by  a girl  who  had  to  go  to 
the  bank  anyway.  Gil  was  terrified 
of  the  bank  manager,  who  had  al- 
ways seemed  singularly  inoffensive. 
But  then,  Gil  was  terrified  of  every- 
body and  everything. 

While  I was  still  thinking  about 
Gil,  the  pljone  rang.  Aloud  I mut- 
tered: “Oh,  God,  not  Dina  again.” 

It  was  Iota.  “I’m  at  London  Air- 
port,” he  said.  “Be  with  you  this  af- 
ternoon sometime.  Have  you  seen 
Gil  since  I phoned  yesterday?” 

“No,  but  I sent  him  a message.” 

Iota  chuckled.  “Of  course.  Mustn't 
disturb  him  at  the  bank.  The  man- 
ager would  chew  his  ears  off  . . . at 
any  rate,  such  desperate  liberties 
must  never  be  taken.  By  the  way. 


is  anything  happening  in  Shuteley?” 
“\^at  would  happen  in  Shute- 
ley?” I said  cautiously,  wondering  if 
by  any  chance  he’d  heard  anything. 

He  hadn’t.  “As  you  say.  Silly 
question.” 

“As  a matter  of  fact,”  I^  said, 
“there  is  something  going  on.  Maybe 
just  a small  thing,  but  something 
. . . No,  don’t  ask  questions.  Wait  till 
you  get  here.” 

“You  intrigue  me.  Something  hap- 
pening in  Shuteley  seems  like  a con- 
tradiction in  tenns.  But  I can  wait. 
Oh  . . . how  did  Sheila  take  the 
great  news  that  I was  coming  back?” 
“Unenthusiastically,”  I said. 

He  chuckled  again.  “Don’t  worry. 
I promised.  If  you  rememiber,  I 
never  promised  before.” 

He  rang  off. 

That  was  technically  true,  that  he 
had  never  promised  not  to  make  a 
pass  at  Sheila.  I wondered,  however, 
if  anyone  but  Jota  would  have  con- 
sidered such  a thing  worth  saying. 
You  weren’t  morally  entitled  to  stab 
a man  in  the  back  because  you’d 
never  promised  not  to. 

As  I hung  up,  Wilma  came  in'  She 
was  breathless  and  rather  in- 
dignant. “Mr.  Mathers,  there’s  a 
young  man  insisting  on  seeing  you, 
and  nobody  but  you.  He  looks  like 
a camper,  and  he’s  . . . well,  the 
things  he’s  been  saying  to  the  girls 

f* 

“Send  him  in,”  I said.  “Right 
away.” 

She  looked  surprised,  but  said 
nothing  and  went  out. 

The  door  opened  again  and  a 
young  Goliath  entered.  He  wore  a 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


51 


white  T-shirt  and  shorts  and  was 
obviously  one  of  the  giants,  probably 
the  biggest  of  them  all.  I judged  him 
to  be  six  feet  seven. 

He  had  not  been  one  of  the  giants 
with  Snow  White  at  The  Copper 
Beech. 

“Val  Mathers?”  he  said,  advanc- 
ing with  outstretched  hand.  “I’m 
John  Smith.” 

“Really?”  I said  politely. 

“No,  not  really,  if  you  insist.  But 
it’s  as  fair  a name  as  any,  isn’t  it?” 

“You  wouldn’t  by  any  chance  be 
Greg,  would  you?” 

He  dropped  his  hand.  He  was  not 
pleased. 

“How  in  fisk  do  you  know  that?” 
he  snarled. 

Not  pressing  my  luck,  I said: 
“Where’s  your  camp,  Greg?” 

For  a moment  he  simmered  and 
then  decided  to  be  friends  again. 

“In  a bend  on  the  river  about  a 
mile  upstream.” 

I knew  the  place.  It  was  three- 
quarters  of  a mile  beyond  my  house, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  the 
north  side. 

He  sat  down  without  invitation, 
looked  at  me  expectantly  and  said 
nothing. 

He  was  blond,  very  good  looking, 
perhaps  nineteen  or  twenty.  His  ac- 
cent puzzled  me  a little.  It  was  not 
foreign,  his  speeirh  was  very  clear, 
and  yet  I had  never  heard  anyone 
speak  quite  like  him.  I had  not 
missed  those  two  words  fair  and 
fisk.  The  natural  thing  to  say  would 
have  been  “as  good  a name  as  any,” 
and  “fisk”  seemed  to  be  a cussword. 

There  was  nothing  strange  about 
his  shirt  and  shorts  and  shoes  except 


that  they  fitted  better  than  clothes 
generally  do  and  looked  as  if  they 
had  just  that  moment  been  put  on, 
brand  new.  But  for  the  giants  that 
was  nothing  strange. 

He  was  completely  at  ease,  and  I 
was  therefore  puzzled  by  his  easy 
manner  and  sudden  silence  — as  if 
he  expected  me  to  tell  him  why  he’d 
come. 

“Well,  Mr.  Smith?”  I prompted. 
“Or  Greg,  as  you  like?” 

“I  want  to  insure  against  catas- 
trophe in  Shuteley  during  the  next 
twenty-four  hours,”  he  said  coolly. 

“Catastrophe?”  I asked. 

“Catastrophe.” 

“In  the  next  twenty-four  hours?” 

“In  the  next  twenty-four  hours. 
You’re  remarkably  up  on  the  quick- 
take,  Val.” 

There  were  lots  of  openings.  I 
chose  one.  “You  can’t  do  business 
under  a false  or  incomplete  name. 
John  Smith  won’t  do.  Greg  won’t 
do.” 

For  a moment,  for  the  second 
time,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
feral  light,  and  I knew  that  this  man 
was  dangerous.  He  didn’t  like  to  be 
balked.  Despite  his  easy  manner,  he 
was  liable  at  any  moment  to  become 
an  animal.  A huge,  dangerous  ani- 
mal. 

I tried  another  opening.  “We  can 
always  supply  better  rates  for  partic- 
ular contingencies.  If  you  wanted  to 
insure  against  flood,  say  — ” 

He  grinned,  all  easiness  and  friend- 
liness again.  “Flood’s  unlikely,  isn’t 
it?  They  tell  me  the  river’s  never 
been  lower.” 

“Catastrophe  in  twenty-four  hours 


52 


IF 


in  Shuteley,”  I said,  “is  unlikely. 
Another  thing,  Greg.  You’re  over 
twenty-one?” 

“What  about  it?” 

“If  you’re  not,  there  are  difficul- 
ties.” 

“Do  you  sell  insurance  or  not?” 

“I  don’t  sell  insurance,  Greg.  I 
arrange  it,  if  it  seems  to  be  to  the 
mutual  advantage  of  both  parties. 
Now,  let’s  see  — you  want  to  insure, 
Greg?  But  you  don’t  live  in  Shute- 
ley.” 

“No.” 

“And  — in  the  next  twenty-four 
hours?” 

“We’re  only  going  to  be  here  twen- 
ty-four hours,”  he  said  simply,  “give 
or  take  an  hour  or  two.” 

“What  sort  of  sum  have  you  in 
mind?” 

“Nothing  most.  A million  pounds, 
maybe.  Perhaps  two  million.” 

It  was  time,  I thought,  to  restore 
sanity  to  the  conversation.  “I’m 
afraid  such  a transaction  would  hard- 
ly be  practicable,”  I said.  “Although 
in  theory  insurance  against  any  con- 
tingency is  possible,  such  as  rain  on 
a certain  day,  failure  of  a crop,  or 
delay  in  a certain  delivery,  there  are 
always  difficulties  in  definition,  and 
it  takes  time  to  work  out  policy  con- 
ditions. It  would  be  quite  impossible 
to  draw  up  a policy  within  the  time 
specified,  to  operate  ...” 

Greg  was  laughing,  a great  roaring 
bellow  of  amusement  that  rattled  the 
windows.  “Val,  you  sound  like  an 
old  man,”  he  said. 

“You’re  not  really  serious  about 
this  at  all,  are  you?”  I said  thought- 
fully. 

He  stopped  laughing  at  once.  “No. 


It  was  just  an  idea.  Quite  a most  idea, 
really  . . . but  as  you  say,  hardly 
practicable.  I just  wondered  what 
you’d  say.” 

“Who  is  the  girl,”  I said  abruptly, 
.“whose  dress  disappears?” 

Unsurprised,  he  answered:  “All  of 
them,  when  they  wear  luxont” 
“Luxon?” 

“Well,  you  see,  the  idea  is  . . . 
it’s  one  of  those  feminine  paradoxes, 
arising  out  of  the  curious  way  wom- 
en think.  If  you’re  wearing  a dress, 
a perfectly  decent  dress,  and  bits  of 
it  disappear  at  times,  that’s  all  right. 
Nothing  indecent  about  it,  because  it 
only  seems  to  disappear.  It’s  really 
there  all  the  time.” 

“Why  does  nobody  drink  beer?” 
“We  don’t  like  the  taste.  And  it’s 
grossing.” 

“Grossing?” 

“Fattening.” 

“Greg,  where  do  you  come  from?** 
“Here.” 

“Here?  Maybe.  But  here  isn’t 
Shuteley.” 

“Here,”  he  repeated  blandly. 
“What’s  this  about  a duel?” 

Again  I had  disconcerted  and  an- 
gered him.  The  red  aninnal  light 
flashed  in  his  eyes. 

“Nothing  aibout  a duel,”  he  said 
shortly.  “And  what  do  you  know 
about  it,  anyway?  No,  never  mind.” 
He  stood  up  and  moved  to  the 
door.  “Sorry  you  won’t  do  a deal, 
Val,”  he  said  over  his  sihoulder, 
his  composure  restored.  “But  as  you 
guessed,  I didn’t  really  think  you 
would.  By  the  way,  you  know  Gil 
Carswell,  don’t  you?” 

“Yes,  but  how  — ” 

“And  Clarence  Mulliner?” 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


53 


“Yes.  In  fact  — ” 

“In  fact,  he’ll  arrive  here  at 
15:10.” 

He  closed  the  door  quietly  behind 
'him. 

VII 

Gil  called  me  from  the  bank,  for 
the  first  time  ever,  and  said: 
“Val,  I want  to  see  you  right  away. 
Come  out  for  a drink.” 

“All  right,”  I said.  “See  you  in 
The  Copper  Beech.” 

“That  chrome-plated  morgue?” 
“There  won’t  be  anybody  there.” 
“I  see.  Right.  In  five  minutes.” 

I left  the  office  at  once  to  walk 
to  The  Copper  Beech. 

At  the  door  Tommy  grabbed  my 
lapels  in  his  eagerness  to  tell  me 
something.  “She  just  passed  again, 
Mr.  Mathers.  If  you  hurry  you’ll 
catch  up  with  her.” 

“Thanks,  Tommy,”  I said,  releas- 
ed myseilf  and  went  out  into  the  mid- 
moming  sun. 

Fifty  yards  ahead  was  the  girl  in 
the  pink  suit.  Although  I could  see 
only  her  back,  there  was  no  doubt 
whatever  that  she  was  Snow  White. 
Her  slim,  smoothly  rolling  hips  were 
only  one  of  the  assets  of  a one-in- 
a-million  shape  to  go  with  her  one- 
in  a million  face;  it  would  have  been 
a crime  to  cover  legs  like  hers  with 
the  sheerest  nylons. 

One  small  surprise:  I wouldn’t 
have  expected  such  a girl  to  wear  the 
same  outfit  two  days  running. 

Since  she  was  alone  this  time.  I’d 
have  hurried  after  her  and  stopped 
her.  But  it  wasn’t  necessary.  Glanc- 
ing over  her  shoulder  she  saw  me 


and,  making  no  pretense  that  she 
didn’t  know  me  from  Adam,  stopped 
and  leaned  against  a lamp  standard 
to  wait  for  me. 

As  I approached,  her  shoulders 
were  sudde^y  bare.  This  time  I saw 
more  clearly  what  happened,  when 
it  happened.  Out  of  the  corner  of 
my  eye  I still  saw  the  lower  part  of 
her  jacket  and  her  skirt.  It  was  as 
if  my  gaze  had  burned  a hole  in  her 
clothes. 

There  were  a few  people  in  the 
street,  and  some  of  them  were  star- 
ing. For  the  most  part,  however, 
they  seemed  to  be  pretending  that 
they  hadn’t  noticed  anything.  (This 
was  Shuteley). 

When  I was  ten  feet  away  Snow 
White’s  jacket  was  complete  again, 
but  her  skirt  was  abbreviated  to 
playsuit  length.  Then  she  wore  the 
whole  suit  again  except  for  a large 
circular  cut-out  round  her  navel. 

Cut-out  wasn’t  quite  the  right 
word.  Material  and  flesh  merged  in- 
to each  other  like  candlelight  and 
shadows. 

More  than  her  blue-black  hair  had 
made  me  think  of  her  as  Snow  White. 
Her  flesh  all  over — and  by  this 
time  I’d  seen  quite  a lot  of  it,  in 
aggregate  — was  pale  and  creamy, 
and  in  this  summer  that  was  a rare 
achievement.  None  of  Ihe  giants  was 
pale.  Every  one  of  them  was  tanned, 
some  lightly,  some  quite  heavily. 

She  was  with  the  giants  but  not 
of  them. 

I stopped.  “Hello,”  I said. 

She  smiled. 

“I’m  Val  Mathers,”  I said,  “as  I 
suspect  you  know  very  well.” 

I scored  a point  with  this.  Her 


54 


IF 


eyes  widened,  and  she  asked : “What 
makes  you  say  that?” 

“You  recognized  me  in  the  bar 
last  night.” 

She  nodded,  admitting  it.  But  she 
added  nothing,  admitting  no  more. 
“Who  are  you?”  I asked. 
“Miranda.” 

“Just  Miranda?” 

Her  suit,  oddly  enough,  was  not 
changing  any  more.  Perhaps  what 
one  saw  depended  on  the  angle  of 
vision.  Moved  by  a spirit  of  experi- 
ment, I stretched  out  my  hand  to 
touch  her  waist  . . . 

She  struck  my  hand  hard,  though 
without  malice.  “Wait  for  an 
invitation,”  she  said  coolly  and 
turned  and  walked  away,  to  my  dis- 
appointment. I had  expected  more 
from  the  encounter. 

From  the  back,  like  the  other  girl, 
she  wore  perfectly  normal  clothes. 

I found  Gil  in  The  Copper  Beech. 
Although  the  lounge  was  not  as  emp- 
ty as  it  had  been  the  previous  eve- 
ning, only  half  a dozen  people  were 
there. 

We  sat  in  the  corner  where  the 
campers  had  sat  the  evening  before, 
and  we  had  it  to  ourselves. 

Gil  and  I were  the  same  height  and 
weight  and  at  one  time  had  resem- 
bled one  another.  Now  he  had  thick 
glasses  and  a permanent  leave-me- 
alone  frown,  and  I hoped  I didn’t 
look  remotely  like  him. 

Gil  could  have  done  anything.  That 
is,  he  had  the  theoretical  ability  to 
do  almost  anything.  In  practice  he 
had  achieved  nothing  and  never 
would. 

Being  sensitive  myself,  I under- 


stood him  better  than  anyone  else 
except  possibly  Barbara.  But  nobody 
could  do  anything  for  ihim.  He 
couldn’t  do  anything  for  himself. 

The  slightest  criticism,  the  merest 
breath  of  condemnation,  even  meant 
as  a jest,  deeply  wounded  him.  He 
was  a bleeder.  Scratch  him,  and  he 
bled  for  days.  If  he  made  a genuine 
mistake,  it  took  him  a month  to  re- 
cover from  it.  But  it  didn’t  even  have 
to  be  genuine.  Someone  merely  ha;! 
to  hint  that  something,  anything  he’d 
done  was  a stupid  thing  to  do,  and 
he’d  start  to  bleed  slowly,  silently. 

Of  course  he  defended  himself.  He 
spent  his  life  and  all  his  vast  poten- 
tial defending  himself  against  attack, 
when  he  wasn’t  being  attacked. 

I was  nearly  as  sorry  for  him  as 
for  myself.  What  was  the  use  of  be- 
ing a near-genius  when  a casual  re- 
mark by  an  officeboy  could  mean  a 
month  of  misery  for  you? 

Gil  had  married  Barbara,  another 
moody  genius,  who  sketched  and 
sculptured  and  wrote  poetry  and  flat- 
ly refused  ever  to  go  further  than 
five  mil^  from  the  village  green.  She 
had  roots,  apparently. 

“What  do  you  know,  Val?”  Gil 
asked  abruptly,  when  the  waitress 
had  brought  our  beers.  “What  do 
you  think  is  going  on?” 

I took  out  a penny.  “Let’s  toss 
for  first  innings,”  I said.  Gil  lost, 
and  I put  him  in  first. 

“A  gang  of  kids  has  been  hang- 
ing round  the  house,”  he  said.  “They 
seem  very  interested  in  Garry.” 
Garry  was  Gil’s  two-year-old  son. 
He  was  an  only  child  and  was  going 
to  remain  so  for  two  excellent  rea- 
sons. Barbara  couldn’t  have  any 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


55 


more  children,  and  neither  — as  he 
had  told  me  one  morosely  drunken 
night  when  we  were  both  feeling  sor- 
ry for  ourselves  — could  Gil. 

“Can  I have  Dina?”  he  asked. 
“She’d  be  company  for  Barbara.” 

So  that  was  it.  “Iota’s  coming,” 
I reminded  him.  “And  he  wants  to 
stay  with  you.” 

“With  us?”  Gil  was  astonished. 
“You’ve  got  a great  big  house.  We 
only  have  — ” 

He  stopped. 

They  had  an  outside  lavatory.  The 
wooden  stairs  up  to  their  flat 
were  so  worn  that  they  looked  as 
if  they’d  been  carved  curved.  The 
floors  creaked  and  were  uneven. 

When  houses  had  been  revalued 
a year  or  two  back,  nearly  every- 
body’s valuation,  including  ours,  was 
doubled,  at  least.  Gil’s  had  been 
halved.  Human  beings  weren’t  sup- 
posed to  live  in  such  conditions  any 
more. 

Although  as  a bank  clerk  Gil 
didn’t  make  a great  deal  of  money, 
others  in  his  position,  married  with 
one  child,  managed  to  live  far  more 
comfortably.  But  neither  Gil  nor 
Barbara  was  remotely  practical.  They 
bought  things  they  thought  they 
needed,  but  didn’t.  They  didn’t  buy 
things  they  did  need. 

“We  can  manage,  I suppose,”  he 
said  stiffly. 

“You^still  want  Dina?” 

“Yes.  I have  to  go  to  work,  and 
Barbara’s  nervous.” 

“Dina  won’t  be  much  help.” 

Gil  shrugged  impatiently.  He  was 
always  impatient  when  anyone  didn’t 
instantly  understand  him,  even 


though  he  had  not  supplied  all  the 
essential  information. 

“I  don’t  think  they  mean  any 
harm,  the  kids.  Maybe  they  won’t 
even  come  back.  It’s  just  that  Bar- 
bara’s alone  in  the  house  all  day.  I 
thought  of  Dina  since  she  doesn’t  go 
out  much.  And  if  Iota’s  there  ...” 

He  let  that  hang,  and  I didn’t  take 
it  off  the  hook.  As  far  as  we  knew 
Iota  had  only  once  broken  trust 
with  either  of  us  in  that  particular 
way.  Gil  knew  what  had  happened 
— Sheila  had  said  something  to  Bar- 
bara. The  idea  of  Iota  making  a 
pass  at  Barbara  seemed  fantastic  to 
me,  but  it  probably  didn’t  seem  so 
fantastic  to  Gil. 

“All  right,”  I said.  “Til  ask  her.” 

Rather  surprisingly,  Dina  got  on 
quite  well  with  both  Gil  and  Bar- 
bara. Moody  geniuses  don’t  like  com- 
petition or  criticism,  and  Dina  never 
gave  them  any. 

We  said  no  more  about  Iota.  Bar- 
bara would  cling  to  Dina,  and  away 
from  me,  away  from  Sheila  (whom 
she  really  trusted  in  a peculiar  way) 
Dina  would  stick  to  the  one  person 
she  knew. 

“There’s  something  else  about 
those  kids,”  Gil  said.  “They  came 
into  the  bank  and  changed  some 
money.  Silver  into  notes.  I was  the 
only  one  to  notice  a certain  very 
strange  thing,  and  for  some  reason 
I didn’t  point  it  out  to  anyone  else.” 

Gil  felt  in  his  pocket  and  produc- 
ed two  half-crowns,  two  florins,  two 
shillings.  He  made  no  comment,  so 
I examined  them. 

It  wasn’t  hard  to  get  the  point. 
The  half-crowns  were  both  fairly 
shiny,  dated  1961.  The  florins  were 


56 


IF 


old  and  worn,  dated  1935.  The  shill- 
ings were  dated  1952. 

“I  see  what  you  mean,”  I said. 

“Do  you?”  He  sounded  skeptical. 
Gil,  with  his  inflated  IQ,  could  never 
believe  that  anyone  else  had  more 
capacity  for  putting  two  and  two 
together  than  . . . well,  Dina. 

I looked  more  closely.  One  half- 
crown  had  an  infinitesimal  scratch 
across  the  Queen’s  hair.  So  had  the 
other.  The  milling  on  the  florins  was 
identical,  particularly  worn  just  be- 
low the  date. 

“There  were  a lot  more  of  these?” 

“Yes.” 

“Any  notes?”  I asked. 

“No.  Well?” 

He  was  challenging  me  to  reach 
his  own  conclusion. 

I said:  “I  know  why  you  didn’t 
point  this  out.” 

“Do  you?” 

“They  must  be  forgeries,  of  course. 
Forgeries  so  good  they’d  be  hard  to 
detect  and  won’t  ever  be  detected 
now  that  they’re  mixed  with  other 
coins  and  the  duplication  isn’t  sig- 
nificant. Notes  weren’t  forged,  or 
duplicated,  because  the  numbers 
would  eventually  give  them  away.” 
Gil  nodded  with  reluctant  respect. 
“And  Why  didn’t  I point  it  out?” 
“Because  you’re  responsible.  This 
might  mean  trouble.  If  you  let  it 
go,  it  can’t  possibly  mean  trouble.” 
“Clever,”  he  sneered.  “Now  tell 
me  why  it  was  done.” 

“They  needed  money,  so  they 
made  it,”  I said. 

He  sniffed,  but  didn’t  pursue  the 
topic.  Instead,  he  said:  ‘Tell  me 
what  you  know.” 


I told  him.  I came  last  to  the  brief 
encounter  with  Miranda. 

His  eyes  gleamed. 

“The  ultimate  in  provocation,”  he 
said. 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“Could  it  be  simpler?  The  impact 
of  any  outfit  any  girl  wears  lasts 
about  five  minutes.  After  she’s  taken 
off  her  jacket  and  you  see  the  lowest 
low-cut  neckline  you  ever  saw, 
after  you’ve  had  a good  look,  she 
might  as  well  put  the  jacket  on.” 

I must  have  looked  unimpressed, 
for  he  went  on  in  a torrent  of  words 
to  develop  the  theme. 

“Does  anybody  stare  at  the  Gram- 
mar School  senior  girls  in  their  little 
white  pants,  except  wistful  old  men? 
But  let  them  put  on  skirts  and  ride 
bicycles  in  a breeze  ...  A pretty 
girl  peels  to  a bikini,  and  every  man 
on  the  beach  stares.  For  a while. 
Then  she  puts  on  a beach  wrap, 
leaves  it  unfastened,  and  they  stare 
again  every  time  it  falls  open.” 

“I  never  thought  of  that,”  I said. 
He  gaj>ed  at  me.  “You  never 
thought  of  it?  Ten  minutes  after 
viewing  the  delectable  Miranda 
you’ve  just  been  describing?” 

“I  was  too  busy  doubting  my  own 
sanity.  But  I see  what  you  mean 
now.” 

And  I did.  Successful  strippers 
don’t  just  take  their  clothes  off.  TTiey 
tantalize.  And  what  could  be  more 
tantalizing  than  a luxon  dress?  What 
greater  inducement  to  look  could 
there  be  than  not  knowing  what 
you’re  liable  to  see? 

Gil  had  hit  on  a good  phrase  — 
the  ultimate  in  provocation. 

Current  fashion  wasn’t  anywhere 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


57 


near  the  ultimate  in  provocation.  In- 
deed, with  untidy,  too-Iong  hair, 
tight  jeans  and  loose  sweaters,  long 
point^  flat  shoes,  unnatural  makeup 
and  too-short  skirts  on  the  wrong 
gMs,  teenage  glamor  had  never  hit 
a lower  low. 

This  kind  of  thing  was  nothing 
remotely  like  current  fashion. 

“Where  are  they  from?”  I mur- 
mured. “Outer  space?” 

The  complete  absence  of  reaction 
showed  that  I was  not  expressing 
any  idea  completely  new  to  Gil.  And 
he  was  the  most  confirmed  skeptic 
in  Shuteley  . . . 

vm 

I had  meant  to  go  home  for  lunch 
and  ask  Dina  if  she’d  like  to  go 
and  stay  with  the  Carswells  for  a 
while,  but  I hadn’t  phoned  Sheila  to 
warn  her,  and  it  was  just  as  well. 

As  I left  the  office,  Miranda  fell 
into  step  with  me  and  asked:  “Care 
to  buy  me  lunch?” 

It  was  a question  that  needed  no 
answer. 

I took  her  to  the  Red  Lion,  partly 
through  lack  of  choice  and  partly 
because  the  idea  of  sitting  opposite 
her  in  a stall  all  to  ourselves  was 
anything  but  unattractive. 

She  was  not  wearing  the  pink  suit. 
She  wore  a silvery  gray  dress  that 
didn’t  disappear,*  and  she  was  still 
sensational. 

She  must,  if  the  camp  was  the 
giants’  only  base,  have  gone  straight 
there  and  come  straight  back. 

As  we  sat  down,  I said:  “I 
waited.” 

“For  what?” 


“An  invitation.” 

She  smiled  a faint  smile  and  said: 
“This  is  a different  kind  of  invita- 
tion.” 

“What  are  you  going  to  tell  me, 
Miranda?”  I asked. 

“Why  are  you  so  sure  I’m  going 
to  tell  you  anything?” 

“Because  the  only  reasons  you 
could  have  for  'being  here  with  me 
now  are  to  tell  me  something  or  ask 
me  something.  And  I have  a feel- 
ing that  I couldn’t  tell  you  much  you 
don’t  know.” 

“There  could  be  another.” 

“Such  as?” 

“Interest  in  you.  I might  be  curi- 
ous what  you’re  like.  Anyway  — 
what  would  you  like  to  know?” 

“Where  do  you  and  your  friends 
come  from?” 

“Here,”  she  said,  as  Greg  had 
done. 

The  waitress  interrupted  us  then, 
and  when  she  left  with  our  order 
Miranda  moved  back  a square. 

“I’ll  tell  you  one  reason  why  I 
wanted  to  lunch  with  you,  if  you 
like.” 

“Why?” 

“I  want  you  to  introduce  me  to 
Iota.” 

I might  have  guessed.  In  this 
crazy  business,  one  thing  could  be 
expected  to  be  unchanged  — that 
Snow  White  would  instantly  be 
drawn  to  the  prince. 

“What  do  you  know  about  Iota?” 
I said. 

She  merely  smiled  and  shrugged. 

“Greg  called  him  Clarence  Mulli- 
ner,”  I observed. 

sat  up  quickly.  “Greg?  When 
were  you  talildng  to  Greg?” 


58 


IF 


“This  morning.  He  came  to  see 
me.” 

She  was  angry,  I saw,  and  perhaps 
afraid.  It  was  an  excellent  chance, 
and  I hoped  I’d  be  able  to  take  it. 
The  possibility  that  I might  be  able 
to  play  Snow  White  against  Giant 
No.  1 had  not  until  that  moment 
occurred  to  me. 

The  less  I said,  and  the  more  Mir- 
anda said,  the  better. 

“What  did  he  want?”  she  asked 
sharply. 

“Amusement,  I suppose.  He  want- 
ed to  insure  against  catastrophe  here 
in  Shuteley  in  the  next  twenty-four 
hours.” 

“The  vandal,”  she  breathed. 

“Vandal?”  That  was  interesting.  It 
hadn’t  occurred  to  me  that  Greg 
might  be  trying  to  insure  against 
disaster  and  then  cause  it. 

“You  wouldn’t  understand.”  .. 

“Of  course  not.  I understand  very 
little.” 

“I’m  sorry.  I didn’t  mean  to  be 
rude.” 

And  then,  with  a baffling  switch 
that  took  the  wind  out  of  my  sails, 
she  smiled  and  said:  “It  doesn’t  mat- 
ter anyway.  Greg’s  a fool,  a danger- 
ous, megalomaniac,  irresponsible 
fool  . . . but  it  doesn’t  matter.” 

Rallying,  I said:  “Why  not?  Be- 
cause we  don’t  matter?  Because  we 
don’t  live  in  the  same  country  as 
you?  The  same  world?  The  same 
dimension?  The  same  time?” 

Most  inopportunely,  the  waitress 
brought  our  soup  (brown  Wind- 
sor, of  course). 

When  she  had  gone,  I asked : 
“How  old  are  you,  Miranda?” 


I got  the  smile  again,  and  nothing 
else. 

Possibly,  I thought  she  was  many, 
many  years  older  than  she  looked. 
This  close,  I had  an  opportunity  to 
see  that  the  flawlessness  common  to 
all  the  young  strangers  was  absolute. 
I don’t  mean  that  they  were  all  hand-" 
some  or  beautiful.  But  like  Miranda, 
they  had  no  hair  out  of  place,  no 
scars,  no  scratches,  perfect  teeth, 
perfectly  manicured  hands.  In  the 
heat  of  a summer  day,  she  didn’t 
sweat.  She  appeared  to  have  no 
makeup  on,  yet  I was  sure  she  had. 
Right  through  history,  women  had 
gilded  the  lily.  Even  in  a different 
history,  I was  sure  they  would  do 
the  same. 

I asked  her:  “Are  you  wearing 
makeup?” 

“Yes.” 

Her  gray  dress  was  at  the  same 
time  unremarkable  and  scarcely  pos- 
sible. No  creases  or  marks.  Its  fit 
was  several  degrees  beyond  current- 
ly known  perfection. 

Ordinary  dresses  worn  by  ordin- 
ary girls  weren’t  like  Miranda’s. 
Either  the  machinery  showed,  or  the 
absence  of  machinery. 

“You  can’t,”  I said  thoughtfully, 
“be  wearing  a bra.” 

“No.” 

“Then  how  . . . ?”  Well,  romantic 
myth  aside,  women  needed  some- 
thing to  provide  their  shape. 

“Selective  tension,”  she  said  easily. 
“Different  degrees  of  elasticity  in 
different  places.” 

And  at  sight  of  my  expression,  she 
laughed  for  the  first  time. 

She  stopped  when  I said:  “You 
do  come  from  the  future.” 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


59 


!W 


^y>>. 


m 


i; 


IV^Wmj'  A\. 


i'i'"'i«i 


m:. 


iVN-VS 


I I 


44T  isten.”  she  said.  “I’ll  tell  you 
-L/  one  thing,  and  it’s  the  truth. 
Then  we’ll  talk  about  something  else. 
We  come  from  the  present,  and  we 
come  from  here/* 

“Yet  you  say  ‘come,’”  I answered 
quickly. 

A flicker  in  her  eyes  registered 
appreciation  of  the  point.  Since  she 
dto’t  reply,  I pursued:  “Another 
dimension  then?” 

“Dimension?”  she  said.  “What’s 
that?” 

I tried  to*  convey  my  own  rather 
fuzzy  idea  of  the  theory  of  co-exis- 
tent worlds.  She  seemed  interested. 

“This  is  only  a theory?”  she  asked. 
“Tliere’s  no  proof?” 

“None.  But  you  might  know 
whedier  it’s  more  than  a theory,  I 
think.” 

The  faint  smile  again.  “Now,” 


I; 


'C’i:'' 


‘i’ll' 


' hh 


11:1 


''.‘I 


\ ■■  v' 


.^',1 


60 


IF 


she  said  finnly,  ‘Ve’H  talk  about 
you.”  After  a pause  she  added;  “And 
Jota.” 

“No,”  I said.  Although  I’d  had 
my  chance,  and  lost  it,  I might  get 
it  back.  “We’ll  talk  about  Greg. 
And  you.” 

I had  lost  it.  She  had  regained  her 
control.  She  wasn’t  going  to  ask  what 
had  happened  between  Greg  and  me. 


She  wouldn’t  discuss  it. 


So  I told  her  about  Jota  and  Gil 
and  me.  Every  time  I tried  to  turn 
the  conversation  back  to  her  and  the 
giants,  she  promptly  turned  it  back. 
I told  her  briefly  about  Sheila,  but 
not  about  Dina  or  Mary. 

Only  three  times,  briefly,  did  the 
talk  swerve  from  the  path  along 
which  Miranda  was  casually  driving 
it. 

The  first  time,  after  telling  her 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


about  the  days  when  Jota,  Gil  and  I 
were  the  Terrible  Three,  I asked 
what  she  and  her  friends  called  them- 
selves. She  thought  for  a minute  and 
then  said:  “W^,  what  would  you 
ca!!  us?  Any  ideas?” 

“Snow  ^Wte  and  the  giants.” 

She  stared  and  laughed  rather  un- 
certainly. She  thought  she  ought  to 
know  what  I was  talking  about,  but 
didn’t.  She  was  off  balance,  so  I 
said: 

“Greg  said  ‘as  fair  as  any,’  instead 
of  ‘as  good  as  any.’  He  said  ‘how 
in  fisk’  . . . ?” 

Miranda  jumped,  nearly  spilling 
gravy  over  herself. 

“I  presumed,”  I said  casually, 
“that  meant  something  like  how  in 
hell.’  ” 

“It  means  rather  more  than  that,” 
said  Miranda.  “There  are  sexual  con- 
notations.” 

“I’m  not  surprised.  He  said  ‘up 
on  the  quicktake.’  ” 

Miranda  was  silent. 

CCA  simple  mistake,”  I went  on, 
“if  you  read  a phrase  in  a 
book.  Quick  on  the  uptake.  Up  on 
the  quicktake.  Unimportant  . . . ex- 
cept that  nobody  born  between  1860 
and  1960  could  say  such  a thing. 
Then  there  was  ‘most,’  apparently  a 
term  of  general  approbation.  ‘Gross- 
ing,’ meaning  fattening.  I may  have 
missed  a few.” 

“Greg  is  careless,”  said  Miranda. 
“Very  careless.” 

“And  you’re  not,  I noticed.  Ex- 
cept in  wearing,  a luxon  suit.” 

“I  won’t  do  it  again.” 

“Pity.” 

The  second  time  was  when  the 


sweet  came  up.  I asked  about  the 
food,  and  she  said,  in  slight  surprise: 
“It’s  only  food,”  and  though  she 
instantly  turned  the  conversation 
again,  I was  left  with  another  strange 
impression:  Miranda  and  the  giants 
ate  and  drank  as  we  stoked  a fire 
or  filled  an  oil  heater.  It  had  to  be 
done,  but  the  quality  of  the  fuel,  so 
long  as  it  came  up  to  certain  mini- 
mum standards,  was  immaterial. 

The  last  time  was  when  we  left. 
As  she  stood  up  I noticed  something 
I’d  have  seen  before  if  I’d  ‘been  rea- 
sonably observant.  She  carried  no 
handbag,  and  she  had  no  pockets. 

“Where  do  you  carry  things?”  I 

“What  things?” 

“Money,  cosmetics,  a handker- 
chief, keys  — that  sort  of  thing.” 

‘*\^y  would  I need  them?”  she 
asked  mildly. 

We  had  emerged  into  bright  sun- 
light. It  was  as  hot  as  usual. 

“Thanks  for  the  lunch,  Val,”  Mir- 
anda said.  “I’ll  see  you  later.” 

And  she  strode  off  so  abruptly 
that  even  to  attempt  to  detain  her 
I’d  have  had  to  shout  or  run  after 
her. 

From  the  way  she  walked,  I knew 
she  could  run  faster  than  I could. 

Looking  after  her,  I decided  that 
Miranda,  in  her  way,  was  as  careless 
as  she  thought  Greg  was.  True,  it 
was  a different  way. 

We  had  lunched  together,  a man 
and  girl.  And  we  might  have  been 
robots. 

Certainly  some  apparently  person- 
al things  had  been  said.  I’d  said  a 
lot.  I had  acted  more  or  less  like  a 
human  being. 


62 


IF 


But  Miranda  . . . 

Everything  she  had  said  and  done 
she  might  have  said  and  done  from 
ten  thousand  miles  and  ten  thousand 
years  away. 

IX 

4 4'\7'ou  don’t  really  believe  it,  do 
I you?”  Gil  sneered.  A sneer 
was  the  only  way  to  describe  it. 
Where  anyone  else  would  have  ex- 
pressed polite  surprise,  Gil’s  reaction 
was  incredulity  that  anyone  could 
be  so  stupid,  even  you. 

“I  do,”  I said. 

“You  mean  one  of  these  — giants 
tells  you  Jota  will  arrive  at  3:10, 
amd  you  expect  him  on  the  dot?” 

I looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  eight 
after  three. 

“You  can  believe  what  you  like, 
Gil,”  I said.  “But  these  giants  are 
no  ordinary  kids.  I’ve  been  trying  to 
figure  out  how  Miranda  was  able 
to  make  me  talk  like  that  an  hour 
or  so  ago,  without  ever  letting,  the 
conversation  get  more  than  two  or 
three  degrees  above  absolute  zero, 
and  now  I see  it.  She  knew  the  ques- 
tions to  ask.” 

Gil  started  to  say  something,  but 
I hadn’t  finished.  “Maybe  Greg 
meant  Jota  would  arrive  in  Shuteley 
at  3:10  exactly,  he  didn’t  say.  But 
I think  he  meant  here.  I think  he 
meant  that  wherever  I was,  whether 
I went  home  or  stayed  in  the  Red 
Lion  or  came  back  here,  Jota  would 
walk  in  at  3:10.” 

“Of  all  the  fatuous,  ridiculous, 
superstitious  — ” Gil  began. 

He’d  probably  have  found  quite 
a few  more  adjectives  before  he  had 


to  cap  them  with  a noun.  But  just 
then  the  door  opened. 

I’d  given  instructions  for  anyone 
who  called  on  me  after  three  to  be 
sent  straight  in.  That  was  why  Mir- 
anda found  it  so  easy. 

“Why  look  surprised?”  she  said. 
“I  told  you  I wanted  you  to  intro-^ 
duce  me  to  Jota.” 

“I’m  surprised,”  I observed,  “that 
you  should  consider  an  introduction 
necessary.  You  didn’t  with  me.” 

She  smiled  and  turned  to  Gil. 
“Hello,  Gil,”  she  said.  “Has  Garry’s 
flush  gone  yet?” 

Although  Gil  didn’t  answer,  I 
could  see  he  was  startled.  Garry 
evidently  had  had  a flush,  and  it 
wouldn’t  have  surprised  me  to  learn 
that  there  was  no  apparent  way  for 
the  giants  to  know  about  it. 

Miranda  sat  down,  primly  arrang- 
ing her  skirt  the  way  girls  do  (though 
I suspected  she  had  had  to  practice). 
And  the  very  instant  that  she  turned 
and  looked  at  the  door,  Jota  came  in. 

He  had  never  been  handsome.  I 
never  knew  any  ladykiller  who  was 
really  good-looking.  Women  seem  to 
go  for  men  of  the  oddest  shapes  and 
sizes.  Jota  had  a long  nose,  very 
deep-set  eyes,  hollow  cheeks  and 
black  hair  nearly,  but  not  quite,  as 
dark  as  Miranda’s.  He  was  tall  and 
very  thin.  He  looked  like  a fanatic 
or  visionary,  and  this  impression 
wasn’t  wrong,  though  fanaticism  was 
only  part  of  his  complex  make-up. 

He  didn’t  look  at  Gil  or  me.  He 
went  straight  to  Miranda,  took  her 
hand  gendy  and  pulled  her  to  her 
feet  and  said,  from  his  nine-inch  ad- 
advantage:  “You’re  exquisite.” 


SNOW  WHITE  AND  THE  GIANTS 


63 


“I  know,”  said  Miranda  coolly. 
“But  thanks  for  noticing.” 

“Your  name  must  be  Venus.” 

“If  you  say  so,”  said  Miranda. 
There  was  a lot  more  of  this,  and 
I realized  as  I watched  that  Iota,  for 
only  the  second  time,  was  annoying 
me  far  more  than  Gil  ever  could. 

It’s  strange  about  old  friends,  peo- 
ple you  know  from  way  back.  You’ve 
forgotten  long  ago  whether  you  like 
them  or  not.  The  question  has 
ceased  to  be  relevant. 

Gil,  now.  He  had  not  made  a 
friend  in  the  last  fifteen  years.  He 
would  die  without  making  another 
friend.  He  had  become  an  amalgam 
of  armor  and  anger  and  acid  and 
antagonism,  a fortress  on  an  island 
that  no  army  would  ever  want  to 
storm.  On  the  mainland,  they’d 
march  past  the  defenses  against  noth- 
ing with  scarcely  a derisive  smile. 

Only  Iota  and  I (and  Barbara,  in 
a different  but  not  warmer  way) 
would  ever  put  up  with  Gil. 

Iota  ...  I had  admired  and  en- 
vied him.  He  had  done  and  was  still 
doing  many  things  I wished  I could 
do,  and  his  amatory  success  was  the 
least  of  these.  He  was,  after  all,  a 
Jack-of-all-trades  (even  if  master  of 
none).  There  was  nothing  he  couldn’t 
turn  his  hand  to.  He  had  the  courage 
or  selfishness  or  brute  insensitiveness 
to  do  what  he  liked  and  invariably 
get  away  with  it.  Most  people  treat 
you  as  your  own  attitude  and  expec- 
tation invites  them  to  treat  you.  And 
Iota  got  what  he  wanted  — whatever 
it  was.  Always.  Everywhere. 

I had  had  every  right  to  objeci 
when  Iota’s  roving  eye  lighted  on 
Sheila.  I had  no  right  to  object  when 


Miranda  caught  his  eye,  but  I did. 

Surprisingly,  the  meeting  was 
brought  to  order  by  Miranda.  She 
suddenly  said:  “I  must  be  going,” 
and  walked  out  as  abruptly  as  she 
had  left  me  outside  the  Red  Lion. 

Ci'T^hat  girl,”  said  Iota,  “fills  me 
A with  a quite  irresistible  de- 
sire to  see  that  dark  head  on  a white 
pillow.  It  will  not  be  resisted.  Now — 
what’s  going  on?” 

He  hadn’t  changed.  He  had  never, 
I suspected,  been  in  love;  he  bad  a 
completely  mistaken  idea  of  what 
love  was.  Stumbling  and  imperfect 
as  our  connubial  relations  were,  I 
believed  that  both  Gil  and  I knew 
far  more  about  love  than  Iota  would 
have  learned  by  the  time  he  died. 

He  heard  our  side  of  the  story 
first.  He  wanted  it  that  way,  and 
things  were  generally  done  Iota’s 
way. 

Gil  had  nothing  fresh  to  say.  The 
giants  had  not  been  near  his  house 
again.  I glossed  over  the  fact  that 
I had  not  yet  asked  Dina  to  go  and 
stay  with  the  Carswells. 

In  my  turn  I told  them  all  the 
facts,  but  not  all  my  guesses. 

Then  Iota  said;  “All  right,  let’s 
call  on  the  giants.  We’ll  go  to  the 
camp.” 

Gil  was  reluctant.  He  didn’t  say 
he  was  afraid  to  go.  He  argued 
against  the  idea  in  general.  But  when 
Iota  and  I decided  to  go  without 
him,  Gil  stoppled  arguing  and  seemed 
to  think  it  might  be  a good  idea. 

So  Iota  and  I went  to  look  at  the 
giant’s  base. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  one 
of  us  would  die  there. 


TO  BE  CONTINUED 


64 


IF 


IF  • Feature 


HANDY  PHRASE-BOOK 
IN  FANNISH 

by  LIN  CARTER 


Here's  how  to  talk  like  a 
fan  — and  even  understand 
some  of  what  you're  saying! 


The  Fannish  Lingo 

I suppose  every  in-group  has  or 
will  develop  its  own  slang,  given 
sufficient  time.  This  is  true  of  every 
group  from  the  various  scientific 
discipline  (each  having  a slang 
vocafbulaiy  called  “technicalese”) 
and  such  game-worlds  as  Big  Time 
Chess  (forever  blathering  on  with 
such  terms  as  “Gumphogle’s  Third 
Gambit”  and  the  like)  . . . right 
on  down  to  enthusiasts  of  mystery 
fiction  (called  ’tec  fiction  by  in- 
siders who  sling  around  baffling 
phrases  like  “procedural  novel”  and 
roman  policiere)  and  to  us  science- 
fiction  fans. 

In  the  forty  years  or  more  that 


the  science-fiction  magazines  have 
been  with  us,  we  have  evolved, 
coined,  borrowed  and  stolen  a size- 
able vocabulary  of  terms,  words  and 
nicknames  totally  cryptic  and  enig- 
matic to  The  General  Public.  It 
all  started  with  Hugo  Gemshack, 
the  man  who  founded  the  first 
science-fiction  magazine.  Amazing 
Stories,  We  call  the  stuff  we  read 
“science  fiction”  because  he  coined 
the  term.  He  also  coined  a variant, 
“scieoitifiction.”  And  away  we  go! 

Now,  to  avoid  the  sheer  nerve- 
fatigue  of  putting  down  those  same 
old  fourteen  letters  every  five  min- 
utes, it  became  necessary  to  coin 
nicknames  for  our  favorite  reading 
material.  Like  sf.  Or  SF.  Or  s-f,  s.f.. 


65 


S.F.,  S-F,  and  so  on  {Time  maga- 
2dne  came  up  with  a repellent  neo- 
logism of  their  own  a decade  back, 
'-when  The  Great  SF  Boom  began. 
They  called  it  “sci-fi”  — is  noth- 
ing sacred?)  And  than,  consider 
scientifiction.  That  got  trimmed 
down  to  stf.  In  conversation,  pro- 
nounced “stef”  — and  sometimes 
spelled  that  way. 

Now,  suppose  you  want  to  ap- 
ply the  term  as  an  adjective.  You 
just  can’t  say,  “I  saw  a real  science- 
fictional  movie  last  night,  gang!” 
What  you  say  is  “stefnal”  ...  or 
“stefish.” 

One  Thing  Leads  to  Another 

Now,  by  extrapolating  from  this 
not-very  inspired  word,  we  came 
up  with:  “stefnist”  (one  who  is  a 
fan,  but  thinks  the  term  Lacks  Dig- 
nity); “stefnistic”  (something  that 
relates  to  science  fiction,  i.e.,  “That 
new  eye-makeup  makes  you  look 
real  stefnistic,  toots!”  . . . and 
(again)  so  on. 

“Fan”  is  a more  popular  term 
than  stefnist  anyday.  The  plural 
is  fen.  A female  fan  (oh,  yes,  there 
are  such)  is  generally  a fanne.  Any- 
thing you  could  call  fannish  (like 
an  activity  such  as  puiblishing  a fan 
magazine)  you  can  also  call  fenly 
— or,  fennish.  Fan  magazines  them- 
selves are  called  fanzines  (the  word 
was  coined  by  Louis  Russell  Chauv- 
enet)  or  fanmags  — and  the  plural 
is  “fmz”,  but  don’t  ask  me  how 
you  pronounce  it,  because  you  don’t. 

Compounded  words,  as  you  can 
see,  compose  a major-size  chunk  of 
the  fannish  lingo.  The  editor  of  a 


fan  magazine  is  a “faned.”  If  you 
belong  to  F.A.P.A.  (Fantasy  Ama- 
teur Press  Association)  you  pub- 
lish a fapazine,  and  you  are  a fapan. 
If  your  fanzine  lasts  a year  (many 
don’t)  you  put  out  a particularly 
large  Anniversary  Issue  called  “the 
Annish.”  If  your  “fanac”  (activities 
in  science-fiction  fandom)  are  con- 
fined largely  to  reading  fanzines  and 
submitting  LoC’s  (letters  of  com- 
ment), you  are  likely  to  be  sneered 
at  as  a “letterhack.”  If  your  fanac 
is  big  time  stuff  and  you  become  a 
celebrity,  you  are  a BNF  (Big  Name 
Fan);  and  if  your  output  is  con- 
sidered “crifanac”  {critical,  or  real- 
ly important  fanac)  you  will  be 
mentioned  all  over  the  place  and  col- 
lect lots  of  “egoboo”  (ego-boosting. 
For  when  someone  mentions  your 
name  in  print  doesn’t  it  boost  your 
ego?). 

But  let’s  suppose  your  fan  acti- 
vities are  confined  to  writing  scho- 
larly treatises  on  the  Sources  Used 
by  H.P.  Lovecraft  in  creating  his 
Cthulhu  Mythos,  or  deadly-serious 
lit-ry  criticism  of  the  latest  Ace 
paperbacks,  or  dull  articles  on  fan- 
nisih  history  (such  as  Our  Man  In 
Fandom  does  not  write).  In  this 
case,  you  may  very  well  be  dis- 
missed as  an  eggheady  old  Sercon 
(serious,  constructive  fan).  The 
other  end  of  the  spectrum  from  this 
is  the  noisy  teen-aged  fan  with  the 
helicopter  beanie  and  collection  of 
BNF  autographs.  He’s  called  a 
faaan. 

Or  suppose  you  chance  to  belong 
to  a very  large,  very  old  organiza- 
tion called  The  National  Fantasy 
Fan  Federation.  The  name  itself  has 


66 


IF 


been  abbreviaited  down  to  “the 
NFFF”  or  “the  N3F.”  You  are  re- 
ferred to  as  a Neffer.  If  you  pub- 
lish a fanmag  distributed  to  mem- 
bers only,  it’s  a Neffzine. 

Slans  and  the  Star-Begotten 

The  key  word,  fan,  came  in  for 
plenty  of  usage.  Many  fanzines 
punned  with  it,  coming  up  with  titles 
like  FUNTASY  (a  fanzine  of  hum- 
orous fantasy,  now  defunct),  FAN 
FARE,  FANEWS  and  like  that. 
Fans  .have  always  been  able  to  identi- 
fy with  the  eternally  put-down  mu- 
tant supermen  in  stories  like  Staple- 
don’s  Odd  John,  A.  E.  Van  Vogt’s 
Sian,  and  H.  G.  Wells’s  The  Star- 
Begotten.  The  tremendous  populari- 
ty of  Sian,  coupled  with  its  fortui- 
tous resemblance  to  the  word  “fan”, 
produced  a host  of  variations.  Tliere 
was  a fanzine  called  Slantasy,  for 
instance,  and  constructions  like 
“slanzine”  and  “Slandom”  became 
popular. 

Along  with  this  We-Are-All-Mut- 
ant-Supermen  notion,  fans  adopted 
the  synthetic  language,  Esperanto. 
Fans  went  through  a period  of  using 
nicknames  which  were  their  names 
rendered  into  Esp>eranto.  For  ex- 
ample, Morojo  (Los  Angeles  fanne. 
Myrtle  R.  Douglas):  Alojo  (Arthur 
Louis  Joquel  IT);  Gakspiro  (Jack 
Speer).  One  of  the  leading  propon- 
ents of  Esperanto  in  Fandom  was 
Los  Angeles  suiperfan  of  yore,  For- 
rest J.  Ackerman,  today  editor  of 
a couple  of  those  movie  monster 
magazines.  Famous  Monsters  of 
Filmland  and  Monster  World.  Oddly 
enough,  Ackerman  didn’t  use  an  Es- 


per antic  version  of  his  name  dur- 
ing his  fanac  days.  But  he  did  use 
nicknames  aplenty:  4e  (pronounced 
,Forry”);  4SJ  ( “Forr-est-J ) ; Ef- 
jay;  and  many  more. 

Ackerman  founded  several  nutty 
fannish  innovations.  Such  as  “Ack- 
ese”,  a sort  of  simplifipd  spelling  or 
typing  or  whatever  you’d  like  to 
call  it.  A sample  would  read  some- 
thing like  this:  “U  & I r 2 b praps 
th  1st  2 men  2 r@ch  n xtra  glaktik 
planet.”  (Translation:  “You  and  I 
are  to  be  perhaps  the  first  two  men 
to  reach  an  extra-galactic  planet.”) 

Ackerman 

also  pioneered  something  called  non- 
stoparagrafing.  You  can  see  wihat  it 
is  — instead  of  pulling  the  carriage 
back  to  the  traditional  five-spaces-in- 
from -left-margin,  you  just  drop 
down  from  the  end  of  the  last 
paragraph  — wherever  it  happens 
to  come  in  the  line  — to  start  the 
new  one. 

E.  Everett  Evans  followed  the  Ac- 
kerman-style  of  nicknames.  He  was 
called  3E,  or  sometimes  ‘Tripoli”. 
Joe  J.  Fortier  did  the  same  — 2J4. 
Then  there  was  DW3  — compo- 
site nickname  for  Don  Wollheim, 
Dirk  Wylie  and  Dick  Wilson  — 
three  fans  whose  initials  were  the 
same,  and  w<ho  roomed  together  in 
the  Ivory  Tower. 

You  Can't  Be  a BNF 

Without  a Nickname 

The  weird  world  of  fan  nick- 
names is  a never-ending  source  of 
amusement  to  me.  I can  remember 
Ecco  (E.  C.  Oonner),  and  Elarcy 
(Louis  Russell  Chauvenet  — “L. 


PHRASE-BOOK  IN  FANNISH 


67 


R.  C.”),  and  SaM  (Sam  Moskowitz, 
so  spelled  to  avoid  that  superfluous 
and  ilfae  popular  lettediaek 
in  the  prozmes,  JoKe  (Joe  Kennedy, 
once  a •witty  Ian  humoiifit  and  now 
a Goftege  pcofcssor  in  literature,  and 
a prize-winning  minor  American 
poet);  and,  although  modesty  for- 
bids, LinC  (pronounced  “link”  and 
short  for  Your  Man  in  Fandom,  Lhi 
Carter) . 

Then  there  was  “Ephless  El”  — a 
phan  named  Elmer  Purdue,  whose 
typewriter,  when  he  entered  phan- 
dom,  lacked  the  “F”  key;  no  phault 
of  his,  it  phoreed  him  to  write  like 
this  due  to  the  missingness  of  this 
letter. 

And  a chap  out  in  Bloomington, 
Indiana,  who  now  writes  hardcover 
mystery  novels  under  his  real  name, 
Wilson  Tucker,  when  a fan 
adopted  the  first  name  “Bob”  — 
which  naturally  laid  him  wide-open 
for  such  terms  as  “Boob”  Tucker, 
et  al.  And  a fan  of  the  ’60’s  here  in 
New  York,  Bob  Stewart,  who  dis- 
torts bis  first  cognomen  to  “Bhob.” 
And  Fred  Pohl,  the  editor  of  this 
magazine,  who  used  to  sign  his  let- 
ters wkh  a Greek  phi. 

Fttnzina  Slong 

In  the  world  of  fanzines,  we’ve 
evolved  and  coined  a curious  group 
of  in-joke  terms.  For  example, 
Obliterine.  This  is  the  correction 
fluid  us^  to  mend  a tear  or  blank 
out  a mistake  made  in  typing  up  a 
mimeograph  stendl.  Fans  used  this 
stenchful  hlue  fluid  so  liberally  that 
one  once  composed  a verse  in  its 
honor: 


Obliterine,  obliterine. 

Without  you  where  would  we 
have  been? 

To  err  is  human,  and  shnnish 
too, 

But  we  can  correct  our  mis- 
takes with  you! 

And  there’s  a form  of  nonsensical 
verse  called  Beardmuttering  (“k’s  the 
kind  of  surrealistic  stuff  you  mutter 
in  your  beard”).  Since  I couldn’t 
possibly  describe  it  — except  to  say 
that,  for  some  very  obscure  reason, 
there  are  no  spaces  between  the 
words  — I’ll  just  have  to  quote 
you  a sample: 

heredeepdowninthegrave 

underthesodandloam 

underthecloudsandsky 

underthetreesandflowers 

iswhereiam 

geeiwonderifimdead 

That  particular  specimen  of  Beard- 
muttering  is  by  Damon  Knight  . . . 
or  as  he  preferred  to  have  the  name 
printed  in  his  fannish  days,  damon 
knight.  Sometimes  demon 

knight. 

Fanzines  are  also  partial  to  some- 
thing called  Interlineations. 


I am  not  a louse.  — Yngvi 

■ M B M M ■ HI  H a B ■ V H M W ■ M H a a I 

That  was  an  Istedmeation.  They 
are  usually  nonsensical,  often  sur- 
realistic, sometimes  dimly  intelligi- 
ble. This  one  has  reference  to  the 
phrase  “Yngvi  is  a louse!”  which 
appeared  in  the  L.  Sprague  de  Camp- 
Fletcher  Pratt  book.  The  Incomplete 


68 


Enchanter,  Harold  S3iea,  the  hero,  is 
in  jail  some:where  in  Ihe  world  of 
Norse  mythology  and  sees  a prison- 
maite  stagger  to  the  bars  and  shout 
out  this  cryptic  sentence  at  intervals 
dming  the  night.  Nobody  in  Fandom 
knew  what  it  meant,  so  they  adopted 
it  for  its  Nonsense  value. 

Another  word  you’ll  find  in  fan- 
zines is  filler.  A filler  is  what  the 
editor  gropes  for  when  he’s  stencil- 
ing a page  and  finds  he  has  a blank 
five  or  six  lines  at  the  bottom.  Most 
fillers  are  composed  on  the  spot. 
Like  this: 

Vve  never  seen  a purple  cow  — 

It  puts  me  in  a rage! 

But  I can  end  this  pome  right  now, 
It's  the  bottom  of  the  page. 

Perhaps  this  might  have  been  a poem 
If  I possessed  the  skill; 

But  as  things  go,  you  see,  my  friend, 
/ had  four  lines  to  fill! 

Hardly  immortal,  eh?  But  then, 
who  is? 

A bit  earlier,  I mentioned  Non- 
sense. Fans  like  nonsense.  Take  the 
phrase  ‘The  Gostak  distims  the 


doshes.”  It  appeared  in  an  old  sf 
story  by  Miles  J.  Breuer.  It  meant 
little  or  nothmg  — so  fans  picked 
it  up.  Another  Nonsense-teim,  once 
wildly  popular,  was  vombic.  Any- 
thing that  is  sort  of  . . . well  . . . 
oh,  you  know  ...  is  vombic.  To 
vomb  makes  you  a vombis,  Vpmbists 
belong  to  societies  for  the  advance- 
ment of  vombii,  ^^en  you  go 
around  being  vombic,  you  vombiate. 
To  vombulate  is  to  adopt  an  atti- 
tude of  vombiation  without  actually 
getting  out  and  being  vombic.  Un- 
derstand? 

Or  take  the  Nonsense  word  — 
fout.  That  is  what  fans  call  an  “all- 
purpose” word.  It  means  absolutely 
nothing.  But  you  can  convey  a lot 
by  the  context  in  Which  you  use  it. 
For  example:  “Naw,  it’s  too  fbuty 
for  me!”  connotes  a deprecative 
meaning;  “The  new  If  is  out!  Hot 
fout!”  implies  extreme  joy  or  exub- 
erance. Used  without  particular 
emphasis,  it  implies  an  enigmatic  air 
of  mystery.  As  in:  See  you  next 
month,  when  Your  Man  in  Fandom 
will  be  back  with  another  fouty  arti- 
cle of  fannish  lore! 


END 


MIT  SF  SOCIETY  INDEX  to  SF  Magazines 


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2300  issues  (95  titles)  from  US,  UK,  etc.  Corrected  expanded 
from  1st  ed.  Offset,  hardbound  — $8.  Available  NOW.  Order 
from  your  dealer  or  MITSFS,  Room  W20-443,  MIT,  Cambridge 
Massachusetts  02139. 


PHRASE-BOOK  IN  FANNISH 


69 


IF  • Novelette 


TUNNEL 

WARRIOR 

by  JOSEPH  P.  MARTINO 


Illustrated  by  MORROW 


They  fought  the  roughest  war 
men  have  ever  engaged  in  — 
not  on  Earthy  but  under  it! 


I suits  and  walk  around  on  the  out- 

side if  they  want  to.  That  land  out 

Sergeant  Alvin  Hodge  adjusted  the  there  hasn’t  been  walked  on  by  hu- 

^ focus  on  the  periscope  and  sur-  man  feet  for  at  least  two  years.  Here 

veyed  the  barren  landscape,  battered  and  there  on  the  surface,  little  patches 

and  pocked  with  craters.  It  looks  like  of  green  grass  showed,  as  nature 

the  pictures  from  the  Moon-base,  he  tried  to  repair  the  damage  man  had 

thought.  No,  it’s  even  more  desolate  wrought.  Back  home  in  Kentucky, 

than  the  Moon.  The  men  at  the  he  thought,  the  morning  glories 

Moon-base  can  put  on  their  space-  would  be  climbing  all  over  every- 


70 


thing,  and  the  trees  would  be  green 
after  the  winter.  Here,  the  spring 
rain  falls  on  mud  and  bare  rock. 

Abruptly  the  scene  blacked  out  as 
the  light-sensitive  glass  in  the  peri- 
scope’s optical  system  turned  opaque 
under  high  intensity  illumination.  As 
the  blackness  slowly  faded  away,  he 
could  make  out  a writhing  pillar  of 
cloud  pushing  its  way  into  the  sky. 
At  least  a half  dozen  times  every 
day  one  of  these  clouds  made  its 
appearance  somewhere  on  the  hori- 
zon. Our  missiles?  Theirs?  No  one 
knew  except  the  men  who  had  fired 
them. 

He  scanned  the  periscope  around. 
Off  to  the  left,  on  a dear  day,  you 
could  see  what  was  left  of  the  his- 
toric German  city  of  Kassel,  now 
just  a pile  of  rubble.  And  off  to  the 
right,  toward  what  used  to  be  Vacha, 
in  Thuringia,  was  where  the  Whole 
thing  had  started. 

No  one  was  really  clear  on  what 
had  happened.  Somehow  or  other, 
the  East  German  and  West  German 
border  guards  had  gotten  to  shoot- 
ing at  each  other.  This  had  happened 
many  times  before,  and  nothing  ever 
came  of  it.  This  time,  however, 
world  tensions  were  'higher  than 
usual  because  of  the  Iranian  ques- 
tion, and  the  UN  was  paralyzied  be- 
cause it  was  Red  Ohina’s  turn  to  be 
chairman  of  the  Security  Council. 
So  in  three  days  Europe  had  ex- 
ploded into  nuclear  war.  Somehow 
the  bombs  had  been  confined  to 
Germany,  and  both  sides  were  rising 
pure-fusion  clean  weapons,  so  there 
was  no  fallout  elsewhere.  Both  sides 
had  dug  in  like  moles  and  had  been 
slugging  it  out  ever  since. 


Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  some- 
one at  his  elbow  . . . “Sergeant 
Hodge?” 

“Yes,  what  is  it?” 

“I  relieve  you  as  Sergeant  of  the 
Watch.  Here  are  your  orders.” 

He  took  the  proffered  envelope, 
tore  it  open  and  pulled  out  the  flimsy 
piece  of  paper.  “Sergeant  Hodge 
will  report  to  Major  Lowndes  in 
Room  279,  Gallery  3,  Level  12,  im- 
mediately upon  receipt  of  this  order.” 

Room  279.  That’s  one  of  the 
rooms  where  they  brief  you  for 
missions.  It’s  not  right,  he  thought. 
It’s  got  to  be  a mistake.  I had  a mis- 
sion day  before  yesterday.  Policy  is 
for  three  days  between  missions.  And 
the  old,  familiar  premission  feeling 
of  having  a lump  of  lead  in  his  stom- 
ach hit  ihim.  He  stalked  into  an  ele- 
vator and  pushed  the  button  for  the 
twelfth  level. 

He  saluted  stiffly.  “Sergeant 
Hodge  reporting  as  ordered,  sir.” 
The  major  returned  his  salute, 
studied  his  face  for  an  instant  and 
then  spoke,  softly.  “Please  sit  down. 
Sergeant.  You  don’t  think  this  is  fair, 
do  you?  You  should  have  had  an- 
other day  off,  esi>eciaHy  after  a 
tough  tunnel  raid  like  the  one  you 
pulled  off  day  before  yesterday.  Well, 
to  start  with,  the  business  of  three 
days  between  missions  is  not  an  ab- 
solute rule.  It’s  merely  a policy  to 
be  followed  whenever  feasible.  And 
you  have  to  admit  we  do  follow  it 
pretty  well. 

“But  there  have  to  be  exceptions 
from  time  to  time.  This  is  one  of 
the  times.  You’re  one  of  the  few 
experienced  tunnel  fighters  available 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


71 


today.  As  you  know,  we  had  a big 
efifert  <nit  yesterday,  afid  the  men 
wlio  were  on  that  ihave  had  even  less 
rest  than  you  have.  Besides,  this  n^- 
Bfon  ought  to  be  a ereampu^.’* 

He  poimled  to  the  Captain  seated 
beside  his  desk.  **l%is  is  Captain 
Maxwetl.  Ife’s  with  the  Directorate 
oi  Geology,  Deputy  Chief  of  Staff 
for  Intelligence.  Your  squad  will  es- 
cort him  on  this  mission.” 

Servant  Hodge  looked  at  the  Cap- 
tain. He  noted  the  collar  insignia 
the  man  was  wearing  and  realized 
that  the  Captain  was  a Component 
Officer,  rather  than  Line.  He  got 
the  pay  and  privileges  of  an  officer, 
but  wasn’t  allowed  to  command  any- 
one outside  his  corps  of  specialists. 
Sergeant  Hodges  would  in  fact  be 
in  command  on  this  mksioii. 

Major  Lowndes  went  to  a table 
beside  his  desk  and  pulled  a doth 
off  a model  of  the  tunnel  and  bunker 
system.  “Sergeant,  you  know  a fair 
amount  about  our  tunnel  system,  but 
you’ll  have  to  know  a few  more 
things  for  today’s  mission. 

•Here  is  our  main  bunker.  It  has 
a series  of  levels,  running  from  fifty 
feet  below  the  surface,  down  to  near- 
ly twenty^fivc  hundred  feet  below 
ground.  It’s  connected  to  similar 
bunkers  on  either  side  by  these  com- 
munication tunnels.  Here,  at  two 
thousand  feet  down,  is  our  forward 
tunnel.  It  toward  this  Russian 
bunker,  about  ten  miles  in  front  of 
us.  The  forward  tunnel  comes  to  a 
dead  end  just  about  halfway  to  the 
Russian  bunker.  Vertical  shafts  run 
up  from  it  about  every  noile  or  so, 
iBokiding  one  right  before  the  dead 
end.  Each  of  these  vertka!  shafts 


has  a series  of  horizontal  galleries 
runninig  sidewiays  from  it,  at  various 
levels.  In  the  case  of  the  shaft  farth- 
est forward,  each  gaUery  has  addi- 
tional tunnels  running  toward  the 
Russian  lines.  Htese  are  the  tunnels 
where  the  fighting  takes  place,  when- 
ever they  meet  a Russian  tunnel, 
either  by  accident  or  design.  I know 
you’re  familiar  with  them.  Now 
you’ve  probably  heard  rumors  we’re 
going  on  the  offensive  soon.  To  do 
that,  we  have  to  have  ah  accurate 
map  of  the  Russian  tunnel  system.” 
“But  I thought  we  got  that  from 
sound  echo-ranging,  Sir.” 

“To  a certain  extent  we  do.  At 
close  ranges  we  can  map  their  tun- 
nels pretty  well.  But  to  do  this  we 
have  to  know  the  velocity  of  sound 
in  the  rock  stratum  we’re  doing  the 
echo-ranging  in.  Now  the  problem 
is  right  here.”  He  pointed  to  a spot 
on  the  model  just  ahead  of  the  for- 
wardmost  tunnel.  “There’s  geological 
fault  here.  The  rock  strata  have  been 
slipping  past  each  other,  like  slicing 
a layer  cake  vertically,  then  moving 
one  of  the  pieces  up.  We  don’t  have 
accurate  information  about  the  rock 
strata  on  the  other  side  of  the  fault. 
We  want  your  squad  to  escort  Cap- 
tain Maxwell  and  a tunneling  crew 
as  they  push  a tunnel  through  this 
fault.  Captain  Maxwell  will  take 
samples  and  make  measurements  on 
the  other  side.  If  we  can  identify  the 
stratum,  we  can  tell  how  much  slip 
there  was  in  the  fault  and  thus  get 
complete  information  on  the  proper- 
ties of  the  rock  on  the  other  side.  Tf 
we  can’t  identify  the  stratum,  at  least 
we’ll  have  a start  on  mapping  the 
other  side.  Any  questions?” 


72 


IF 


**Shiould  tiliere  be  any  ftghdng  on 
tliis  missioa^  1^?” 

*Wo  don't  now  plan  any.  Your 
job  is  to  get  Captain  Maxwell  across 
tlie  ifault  and  back  safety  with  his 
instruments  and  information.  If  the 
Russians  interoept  you,  of  oourse 
dierell  be  a fight  But  we're  not  look- 
ing for  one.  YouTl  'be  imder  the 
command  of  Sector  Three.  Their  call 
sign  is  Birdseye.  You  will  be  Birds- 
eye Twelve.  Now  ooUeot  your  men 
and  be  ready  to  leave  in  forty-five 
minutes.” 

Sergeant  Hodge  saluted  and  hur- 
ried out.  Forty-five  minutes  didn’t 
leave  much  tinie.  His  men  were  all 
off  duty  and  might  be  in  the  PX, 
watching  a movie,  reading  in  the  li- 
brary (although  he  had  to  admit 
that  was  unlikely)  or  any  one  of  a 
numiber  of  other  places. 

II 

He  entered  the  concrete  cubicle 
which  was  home  for  his  squad 
and  counted  quickly.  Fortunately 
they  were  all  here.  The  usual  four 
were  playing  their  usual  game  of 
pinochle.  Two  more  wore  lying  on 
their  bunks,  avidly  devouring  paper- 
backs with  lurid  covers.  The  remain- 
ing two  were, cleaning  their  weapons, 
the  short-barreled,  small-caliber  ma- 
chine guns  which  had  replaced  the 
rifle  for  tunnel  fighting. 

“Tennessee”  Harper,  Private  First 
Qass,  a tall  youthful-looking  man 
with  a permanent  smile  under  his 
shock  of  blond  hair,  was  vigorously 
running  a cleaning  rod  through  the 
barrel  of  his  weapon. 

“Twelve  more  days,”  he  said  in 


the  soft  aocents  of  his  native  state, 
“and  I start  my  Rest  and  Recupera- 
lk>n  leave  in  Paris.  After  surviving 
another  three  months  of  tunnel  crawl- 
ing, I get  two  solid  weeks  with  no 
missions,  no  alerts  and  no  reveille. 
Just  think,  111  have  a real  sky  over 
my  head.  And  aiH  that  French 
and  those  French  ^ris.  Especially 
the  French  girls.  Ooh,  la,. la.” 

Friedmann,  whose  collection  of 
paperbacks  was  renowned  through 
the  entire  corridor,  lowered  his  book 
and  joined  the  conversation.  “Paris  is 
fine,  Tennessee,  but  wait  till  you’ve 
been  here  as  long  as  I have.  Once 
you’re  over  the  hump,  and  you’ve 
got  the  first  eighteen  months  of  your 
tour  behind  you,  you’ll  start  sweating 
out  the  Big  R.  You’ll  take  Paris, 
London,  Madrid  or  the  other  R&R 
towns  as  they  come,  but  rotation 
back  to  the  States  is  what  you’ll  real- 
ly think  about.” 

“I’M  take  your  word  for  it,  but  the 
Big  R is  almost  two  years  away  for 
me.  Three  months  is  about  as  far 
ahead  as  I ever  look  anyway.” 

Pedro  Sanchez,  Mexican- Ameri- 
can, Corporal,  and  second  in  oom- 
mand  of  the  squad,  started  to  assem- 
ble his  weapon.  “Friend  Tennessee, 
it  is  bad  luck  to  talk  about  going 
on  R&R  just  a few  days  'before  your 
three  months  are  up.  You  shoidd . . .*• 

“All  right,  knock  it  off.”  Sergeant 
Hodge  felt  that  just  before  a missioo 
was  no  time  to  talk  about  bad  luck. 
“Get  a move  on,  you  guys.  We’re 
due  down  at  the  tunnel  head  for  a 
mission  in  about  half  an  hour.  Make 
it  snappy.” 

“But  we  got  another  day  of  rest 
cornin’  . . . How  come?  . . . Why 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


73 


US?  ...”  came  the  disgusted  chorus 
of  replies. 

“Because  there’s  a job  to  be  done, 
and  we’ve  been  told  to  do  it,  that’s 
why.  And  besides,  this  one  sounds 
like  a real  oreampuff.  Just  don’t  any- 
one go  goofinig  off,  and  we’ll  get 
through  this  one  with  no  sweat.” 
Then  he  started  to  change  from  his 
duty  khakis  to  ooveralls  more  suited 
to  tunnel  fighting.  Twenty  minutes 
later,  the  squad  was  lined  up  in  the 
Armory,  while  he  check^  their 
equipment.  First,  the  standard  equip- 
ment they  all  carried,  like  the  hard 
hats,  the  face  mask  with  filter  for 
dust  and  gas,  the  emergency  bottle 
of  oxygen,  infrared  goggles,  infrared 
filters  for  the  headlamps.  Check  the 
batteries  in  the  headlamps.  Then  the 
weapons,  basic  load  of  ammunition, 
plus  two  grenades  and  two  gas 
bombs  for  each  man.  Extra  rations. 
Then  the  special  equipment.  Carson, 
one  of  the  pinochle  players,  carried 
a flamethrower.  Friedmann  carried 
the  Very  Low  Frequency  induction 
radio.  Williams,  another  pinocle  play- 
er, carried  the  rocket  launcher.  And 
Tennessee  carried  the  squad’s  five- 
kilotop  fusion  bomb.  All  were  in 
order.  Even  if  the  mission  were  to 
be  a creampuff,  the  squad  was  too 
battle-wise  to  go  slack. 

T^hey  stepped  off  the  elevator  at 
the  head  of  thd  forward  tunnel  at 
the  appointed  time.  Captain  Maxwell 
and  the  tunnelling  crew  were  there 
already.  As  the  heavy  entrance  door 
of  the  tunnel  swung  open,  the  men 
gripped  their  weapons  tighter.  The 
lump  of  lead  in  Sergeant  Hodge’s 
stomach  felt  like  it  would  carry  him 


through  the  floor,  right  down 
through  the  solid  rock. 

They  filed  into  the  tunnel  and 
took  seats  in  the  vehicle  waiting  for 
them.  In  the  lead  was  a jeep  like 
vehicle  with  low-pressure,  balloon 
tires,  driven  by  a compressed-air 
engine  which  was  supplied  from  a 
bottle  of  high-pressure  air  carried  in 
the  back.  Sergeant  Hodge  and  Cap- 
tain Maxwell  would  ride  in  that  one. 
Behind  that  was  a personnel  carrier 
which  would  carry  half  the  Squad 
and  the  tunnelling  crew.  Then  came 
some  specialized  vehicles  belonging 
to  the  tunnelling  crew.  Finally  the 
rest  of  the  squad  brought  up  the  rear 
in  another  jeep.  All  the  vehicles  rode 
on  the  balloon  tires  and  used  com- 
pressed air  for  power.  This  made  far 
less  noise  to  alert  the  Russian  sound- 
detector  operators  and  to  confuse  the 
American  operators.  In  addition,  the 
compressed-air  motors  avoided  foul- 
ing the  air  and  simplified  the  prob- 
lem of  supplying  air  to  the  tunnels. 

At  first  the  tunnel  was  broad  and 
high,  lined  with  concrete,  well  light- 
ed and  well  supplied  with  air.  They 
drove  swiftly  towards  the  Russian 
lines,  stopping  at  the  oheck|X)ints  at 
each  6f  the  vertical  shafts.  Finally 
they  reached  the  last  vertical  shaft. 
Here  the  tunnel  underwent  a drastic 
transformation.  Farther  ahead,  the 
walls  were  bare  rock,  the  lighting 
consisted  of  an  occasional  bulb  hang- 
ing from  the  ceiling,  and  the  air 
was  replenished  by  diffusion  from 
the  rest  of  the  tunnel.  From  now 
on.  that  was  the  way  the  tunnels 
would  be.  They  topped  off  their 
compressed-air  Wtles  from  the  tap 
at  the  end  of  the  line. 


74 


IF 


Their  vehicles  were  loaded,  one 
at  a time,  onto  a slowly  rising  ele- 
vator and  carried  up  to  the  level 
from  which  they  would  operate,  only 
about  twelve  hundred  feet  below 
the  surface.  They  filed  down  the 
gallery  parallel  to  their  own  lines, 
then  turned  towards  the  Russian 
lines  again.  They  reached  the  final 
checkpK>int  and  stopped.  The  cor- 
poral in  charge  informed  them  that 
the  tunnel  extended  another  three 
hundred  yards  and  came  to  a dead 
end.  The  detectors  in  the  tunnel  had 
given  no  indications  of  anyone 
breaking  in,  and  a patrol  which  had 
gone  all  the  way  to  the  tunnel  face 
less  than  two  hours  ago  reported  the 
tunnel  clear.  Their  sound  detectors 
had  not  found  any  signs  of  Russian 
activity  in  the  vicinity,  although 
there  was  believed  to  be  a tunnel 
parallel  to  this  one,  about  fifty  to 
a hundred  yards  away.  Armed  with 
this  assurance,  they  went  forward 
with  the  usual  caution.  They  left  all 
the  vehicles  except  those  used  in 
tunnelling  at  the  checkpoint.  In  the 
event  of  an  enemy  breakthrough, 
it  was  much  better  to  be  on  foot. 

As  usual,  Sergeant  Hodge  found 
that  the  lump  of  lead  was  gone 
from  his  stomach,  and  he  couldn’t 
say  ju§t  when  it  had  disappeared. 
He  had  been  at  this  business  a 
long  time  and  felt  sure  he  was 
stretching  his  luck  far  beyond  any 
reasonable  limits.  If  he  kept  it  up, 
he  would  inevitably  find  that  his 
luck  had  run  out.  Hence  he  was 
nervous  about  each  new  mission. 
But  once  he  was  back  in  the  tun- 
nels, things  were  different.  He  could 
quit  worrying  about  the  future  and 


wondering  how  long  his  luck  would 
last.  He  concentrated  on  keeping 
alive  for  the  immediate  future.  A 
small  part  of  tunnel  fighting  in- 
volved a high  level  of  tension  and 
excitement,  before  a breakthrough 
into  an  enemy  tunnel,  wondering 
whether  the  enemy  had  detected 
you  and  you  were  heading  into  an 
ambush.  By  far  the  biggest  part  of 
the  time,  though,  was  spent  just 
waiting.  Waiting  for  the  enemy  to 
break  through,  waiting  for  the 
enemy  to  learn  you  had  broken 
through,  waiting  for  the  enemy  to 
enter  your  ambush. 

This  mission  was  just  waiting  and 
hoping  that  the  Russians 
wouldn’t  detect  them  or,  even  if 
they  did,  would  decide  not  to  do 
anything  about  it.  Many  men 
couldn’t  take  just  waiting.  T^ey  got 
to  thinking  about  all  the  tons  of 
rock  over  their  heads  and  how  much 
nicer  it  was  to  walk  the  green 
earth  under  a blue  sky,  and  they 
went  tunnel-happy.  Sergeant  Hodge, 
however,  had  learned  patient  wait- 
ing as  a boy  in  the  Kentucky  hills, 
hunting  deer  and  small  game.  If 
you  consider  hunting  as  a sport, 
you  can  spend  the  day  wandering 
around  the  hills,  and  it  doesn't 
matter  whether  you  see  any  game 
or  not.  When  success  at  hunting 
means  the  difference  between  meat 
on  the  table  or  not,  you  learn  to 
sit  by  the  game  trails  and  wait  pa- 
tiently for  something  worth  shoot- 
ing to  come  by.  After  a while,  you 
even  got  to  the  point  where  you 
let  small  animals  go  by,  confident 
that  there  will  be  a bigger  one 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


75 


along  later.  This  was  the  kind  of 
patience  successful  tunnel  fighting 
called  for. 

Sergeant  Hodge  led  half  his 
squad  up  to  the  tunnel  face.  There 
were  no  signs  of  trouble  anywhere. 
Then  the  tunnelling  crew  brought 
their  equipment  to  the  tunnel  face 
to  begin  work.  Using  a low-powered 
echo-sounder,  Captain  Maxwell  de- 
termined that  the  earth  fault  w.as 
about  three  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  them.  That  would  take  about  six 
hours  cutting  time.  Sergeant  Hodge 
was  glad  he  had  made  the  men  brin-g 
extra  rations.  It  would  be  very  un- 
usual if  anyone  brought  them  any 
rations  while  they  were  here.  He 
placed  half  his  squad  midway  be- 
tween the  tunnel  face  and  the  check- 
point, where  they  could  serve  as 
a reserve  and  would  also  be  useful 
if  the  Russians  broke  through  into 
the  tunnel  behind  the  face.  He  kept 
the  rest  of  the  squad  near  the  tun- 
nel face  with  him.  He  had  seen  tun- 
nel-cutting operations  before,  but 
they  never  ceased  to  fascinate  him. 

The  tunnelling  crew  used  laser 
torches,  powered  by  fuel  cells  in 
one  of  their  trucks,  to  carve  chunks 
of  rock  from  the  tunnel  face.  This 
made  much  less  noise  than  more 
conventional  techniques  of  boring 
and  blasting.  The  rocks  were  then 
gripped  by  a special-purpose  con- 
veyor and^  carried  back  from  the 
tunnel  face,  where  they  were  trans- 
ferr^  to  a more  conventional 
truck.  When  this  was  full,  it  hauled 
the  rook  back  towards  the  main 
part  of  die  tunnel,  wbilc  another 
truck  took  its  place.  The  rock  would 
be  stored  temporarily  in  an  un- 


used tunnel.  Later  some  of  it  would 
be  used  to  block  tunnels  which  were 
no  longer  desired,  and  the  rest 
would  be  hauled  behind  the  lines 
and  dumped  on  the  surface. 

Actually,  the  limit  on  tunnelling 
speed  was  the  speed  with  which  rock 
could  be  carried  away  from  the 
tunnel  face.  The  laser  torches  were 
capable  of  cutting  away  rock  much 
faster  than  it  could  be  hauled  away. 
In  making  a major  attack,  in  fact, 
a process  known  as  “pioltng”  was 
used.  In  that  case,  the  rock  was 
cut  away,  hauled  back  a hundred 
yards  or  so  and  dumped.  Thus  a 
section  of  tunnel  roughly  a hun- 
dred yards  long,  closed  at  both  ends, 
was  moved  forward.  Tunnelling 
rates  well  over  a hundred  yards  per 
hour  could  be  achieved  this  way.  A 
precision,  inertial  navigator  was  re- 
quired to  keep  the  tunnel  on  course. 
With  the  tunnel  open  at  one  end, 
as  it  was  here,  however,  the  con- 
ventional methods  of  using  a transit 
and  laser  range  finder  were  suffi- 
cient for  keeping  the  tunnel  on 
course. 

Behind  the  digging  crew  at  the 
face  of  the  tunnel  came  another 
crew.  They  inspected  the  tunnel 
walls  and  ceiling  for  weak  spots  and 
applied  braces  and  shoring  as  need- 
ed. They  smoothed  the  tunnel  floor 
and  cut  any  projections  from  the 
walls.  Every  twenty  yards,  on  al- 
ternate sides  of  the  tunnel,  the 
cut  niches.  These  were  man-high 
and  big  enough  for  two  men.  The 
side  of  the  niche  toward  the  tun- 
nel face  was  cut  perpendicular  to 
the  tunnel  wall.  The  side  away  from 
the  tunnel  face  was  cut  at  approxi- 


76 


IF 


mately  forty-five  degrees,  so  that 
the  niche  narrowed  as  it  went  deep- 
er. Finally  they  strung  lights  on 
wires  suspended  from  the  ceiling. 
These  were  connected  to  the  main 
power  network  of  the  bunker  and 
galleries.  Here,  they  had  merely 
needed  to  tap  into  the  wires  com- 
ing up  to  the  checkpoint. 

After  a while  Sergeant  Hodge 
grew  tired  of  watching  the  work 
of  tunnelling  and  made  a patrol  of 
the  tunnel  back  to  the  check{x>int. 
The  men  on  the  sound  detector  re- 
ported that  the  noise  of  hauling 
rock  drowned  out  everything  else, 
but  that  couldn’t  be  helped.  Final- 
ly he  sat  down  to  rest  along  the 
edge  of  the  tunnel,  out  of  the  way 
of  the  vehicles.  His  men  were  ab- 
solutely silent.  There  was  no  small 
talk,  none  of  the  traditional  grip- 
ing of  soldiers.  The  tunnelling, 
though  much  quieter  than  conven- 
tional digging  methods,  was  still 
louder  than  normal  conversation. 
However,  habits  acquired  in  com- 
bat ''re  hard  to  break.  When  wait- 
ing in  position,  you  did  not  talk, 
lest  the  enemy  discover  where  you 
were. 

At  last,  at  almost  six  hours  on 
the  dot,  there  was  a sudden  buzz 
of  excitement  at  the  tunnel  face. 
There  had  been  a sudden  change 
in  the  color  and  texture  of  the 
rock.  They  had  reached  the  earth 
fault.  The  fault  here  was  marked 
by  patches  of  gravel  and  fragments, 
where  the  rock  strata  had  ground 
against  each  other.  The  tunnel 
would  have  to  be  extended  a few 
yards  beyond  the  fault  to  assure  an 


uncontaminated  sample  of  the  other 
stratum  at  this  same  level,  but  that 
was  the  work  of  a few  minutes. 
Then  Captain  Maxwell,  using  a 
miniature  version  of  the  larger 
laser  torches,  cut  off  a few  pocket- 
sized  specimens  of  rock.  He  buried 
probes  in  the  rock  and  made  some 
in  situ  measurements  of  sound  velo- 
city. Then  he  packed  up  his  gear 
and  turned  to  go.  The  effect  on 
the  tunnelling  crew  was  as  though 
a tremendous  pressure  had  been 
removed.  In  a few  minutes  they 
would  well  be  out  of  here. 

Sergeant  Hodge  felt  the  same 
relaxation  of  tension,  then  steeled 
himself  against  it.  He  brought  the 
men  with  him  to  the  tunnel  face  and 
sent  one  of  the  tunnelling  crew  as 
a runner  to  order  the  rest  of  the 
squad  forward  and  to  alert  the 
dieckpoint  they  were  coming.  He 
didn’t  intend  to  relax  until  they 
were  well  back  into  friendly  terri- 
tory. He  followed  the  digging  crew 
away  from  the  tunnel  face  for  about 
fifty  yards,  when  he  heard  a noise 
behind  him.  He  turned,  to  see  the 
tunnel  wall  cave  in  just  this  side 
of  the  tunnel  face.  An  explosion 
followed,  and  the  lights  went  out. 

He  dropped  to  a crouch  and 
scuttled  toward  the  tunnel  face, 
brushing  his  left  arm  against  the 
tunnel  wall.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  first  niche  he  found,  triggered 
off  a short  burst  toward  the  tunnel 
face  and  ducked  out  of  the  way  of 
the  fusillade  that  came  back  at 
him.  Within  seconds,  he  had  slipped 
an  infrared  filter  over  his  head- 
lamp, turned  on  the  lamp,  flipped 
his  infrared  goggles  on  and  stuck 


78 


IF 


the  tube  from  his  oxygen  bottle 
between  his  teeth,  where  he  could 
bite  down  on  the  valve  and  mouth- 
breathe  oxygen  if  the  air  grew  too 
foul. 

He  peered  back  into  the  tunnel. 
A steady  stream  of  Russians  was 
pouring  through  the  breach  in  the 
tunnel  wall.  As  they  entered  the 
tunnel,  they  hugged  the  walls, 
sprawled  on  the  floor  or  found 
what  shelter  they  could  behind  the 
debris  their  explosion  had  caused. 
A veritable  storm  of  bullets  was 
sweeping  the  tunnel  face,  taking  a 
high  toll  of  the  entering  Russians. 
However,  within  seconds,  they 
would  have  a force  large  enough 
to  overwhelm  his  squad,  despite 
their  inevitable  high  losses. 

First  things  first.  He  blew  a series 
of  blasts  on  his  whistle.  An  answer- 
ing series  from  Sanchez  told  him  that 
Tennessee  was  in  position  with  the 
fusion  bomb.  As  a last  resort,  the 
bomb  could  be  set  off  and  the  tun- 
nel sealed,  keeping  the  Russians  out 
of  the  rest  of  the  gallery.  The  next 
was  to  stop  the  flow  of  Russians  into 
the  tunnel. 

Carson,  with  the  flamethrower, 
was  too  far  back  to  help  now.  What 
else  might  be  used?  He  had  seen  it 
done  once  that  way  . . . He  blew 
another  series  of  blasts  and  yelled, 
“Use  the  lasers!” 

Within  seconds  the  tunnel  was 
filled  with  an  eerie  light. 
Someone  had  gotten  one  of  the 
laser  torches  going  and  was  playing 
it  over  the  breach  in  the  tunnel  wall. 
At  that  range  the  beam  was  defo- 
cussed  and  would  not  melt  rock.  The 


energy  density  was  still  high  enough 
to  char  flesh  and  flash  coveralls 
into  flame,  however.  The  stream  of 
reinforcements  entering  the  tunnel 
was  cut  off  abruptly,  while  the  men 
in  the  tunnel  concentrated  their  fire 
on  the  laser  in  an  attempt  to  knock 
it  out. 

The  next  step  was  to  clean  out 
those  Russians  remaining  in  the  tun- 
nel and  to  do  it  in  the  few  seconds 
the  laser  was  likely  to  continue  oper- 
ating. There  were  perhaps  a dozen 
Russians  in  the  tunnel  still  putting 
up  some  fight.  They  were  almost 
totally  unsheltered,  however.  A few 
had  tried  firing  from  one  of  the 
niches  in  the  tunnel  wall,  but  found 
that  the  sloping,  rear  side  of  the 
niche  gave  almost  no  protection 
against  fire  from  the  direction  of  the 
tunnel  head. 

Hodge  was  startled  as  something 
streaked  past  him,  then  he  realized 
that  Williams  had  brought  his  rocket 
launcher  into  action.  The  launcher 
was  equipped  with  a laser  range 
finder,  and  the  rocket  fuses  could 
be  set  to  burst  at  a given  range, 
with  a precision  of  a foot  or  two. 
Thus  William  could  burst  a rocket 
right  beside  a standing  man  or  right 
above  a man  lying  prone,  sleeting 
him  with  shrapnel. 

Sergeant  Hodge  blew  his  whistle 
again.  Under  cover  of  Williams’  roc- 
ket fire,  the  rearmost  members  of 
the  squad  started  moving  up  from 
one  niche  to  the  next.  The  moves 
were  made  with  only  one  man  ex- 
posed at  a time,  and  he  had  to  run 
only  the  twenty  yards  to  the  next 
niche.  All  the  men  not  running  add- 
ed the  weight  of  their  fire  in  an  at- 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


79 


tempt  to  disrupt  the  return  fire  of 
the  Russians. 

Hiefi  the  tunnel  was  pitched  into 
blackness  again,  as  the  las^  went 
out  ffi  a shower  of  pyrotechinics. 
Hodge  blew  a long  blast  on  his 
whistle,  and  the  whole  squad  was 
out  in  the  tunnel,  running  for  the 
hazy  glow  cast  by  the  Russians’ 
infrared  headlamps.  Some  of  the 
Russians  stood  and  fought  and  were 
quickly  overwhelmed.  The  rest  dis- 
appeared through  their  entry  tun- 
nel. 

Carson  and  Hodge  reached  the 
opening  at  the  same  time.  Carson 
unlimbered  his  flamethrower  and 
started  it  spraying  back  up  the  Rus- 
sians’ tunnel.  Then  the  whole  squad 
was  charging  into  the  tunnel.  They 
were  met  half  way  by  another  group 
of  Russians.  The  earsplitting  clatter 
of  machine  guns  filled  the  tunnel 
until  the  two  groups  closed  with 
each  other.  Curses  and  grunts  min- 
gled with  the  acrid  smoke  and 
gloom. 

A figure  in  a Russian  hard  hat 
loomed  up  in  front  of  Hodge.  The 
figure  raised  his  weapon  like  a club, 
and  Hodge  delivered  a quick  kick 
to  the  knee,  then  dodged  the  now 
badly  aimed  blow.  Hodge  jabbed 
the  muzzle  of  his  gun  hard  right 
under  the  other’s  rib  cage,  then 
stepped  back.  As  the  figure  doubled 
over,  Hodge  brought  his  knee  up 
into  the  other’s  face  and  smashed 
the -buitt  of  his  weapon  down  on  the 
other’s  hack,  just  below  the  rim 
of  the  hard  hat. 

As  the  figure  slumped  to  the 
floor,  Hodge  was  bumped  from  the 
side.  He  stumbled  and  regained  his 


balance.  He  found  that  he  bad  been 
bumped  by  a Russian  who  was  in- 
tent on  honung  into  a fight  between 
another  Russian  and  one  of  Hodge’s 
men.  Hodge  tripped  him  with  a gun 
barrei  between  the  legs  and  finish- 
ed him  with  a short  burst  while  he 
was  down.  Then  he  swiveled  to 
parry  the  attack  of  a Russian  coming 
at  him  from  die  other  side,  who  in 
turn  was  taken  from  the  side  by  an- 
other of  Hodge’s  men. 

Then  finally  there  Were  no  more 
Russians  left  standing.  Hodge  count- 
ed three  of  his  squad  besides  himself 
still  on  thear  feet.  Friedmann  was 
down,  wounded  but  still  alive.  San- 
chez, a bloody  trench  knife  gripped 
in  his  right  hand,  was  examining  the 
Russians  to  make  sure  they  were 
dead.  Carson  was  retrieving  his 
flamethrowty  from  where  he  had 
dropped  it  when  the  hand-toTiand 
fighting  started.  Williams  was  sal- 
vaging ammunition  from  the  dead 
Americans. 

Sanchez  turned  over  one  of  the 
Americans  and  spw>ke  softly. 
“Friend  Tennessee,  I told  you  not 
to  make  your  own  bad  luck.  Now 
may  God  have  mercy  on  you.” 
Hodge  spoke  up,  “Sanchez,  get 
that  fusion  bomb  Tennessee  was  car- 
rying and  get  someone  else  to  cany 
it.  Carson,  see  how  things  are  back 
in  our  tunnel.  Find  Maxwell  if  you 
can.  Friedmann,  see  if  you  can  raise 
Birdseye  on  the  radio  for  me.” 
“Birdseye,  this  is  Birdseye  Twelve. 
Come  in  please.  Birdseye,  this  is 
Birdseye  Twelve.  Come  in  please.” 
“Birdseye  Twelve,  this  is  Birds- 
eye. What  is  your  situation?” 


80 


IF 


Sergeant  Hodge  took  the  micro- 
phone. “This  is  Birdseye  Twelve. 
I’m  down  to  four  effectives,  in- 
cluding myself,  plus  one  wounded. 
We  bad  completed  our  misMon  when 
the  Russians  attacked.  Hold  on  just 
a minute,”  he  said,  as  Carson  and 
Maxwell  showed  up. 

“How  are  things  out  there?” 

Maxwell  replied,  “Not  as  bad  as 
we  thought  at  first.  About  one  third 
of  the  tunnelling  crew  are  woimded, 
and  they  have  a few  dead.  Most  of 
their  tunnelling  equipment  is  wreck- 
ed, but  all  our  transportation  is  still 
intact  back  at  the  checkpoint.  I’ve 
still  got  my  samples  and  data. 
They’re  carrying  back  the  dead  and 
wounded  now.” 

Sergeant  Hodge  repeated  this  in- 
formation to  Birdseye,  then  went 
on.  “We  seem  to  have  lucked  into  a 
Russian  tunnel  here.  It  would  take 
several  squads  to  exploit  it  properly. 
We  can  try  to  hold  the  entrance  until 
you  can  get  more  troops  here,  or  we 
can  seal  it.  In  any  case,  I think  we 
need  reinforcements  to  escort  the 
tunnelling  crew  back.  What  do  you 
want  us  to  do?” 

“Do  you  have  a fusion  bomb 
with  you?” 

“Yes,  Sir.” 

“Very  well.  There’s  a squad  in  a 
nearby  tunnel.  They  can  be  brought 
around  as  an  escort  for  the  tunneling 
crew.  We  just  don’t  have  any  forces 
available  to  exploit  the  tunnel.*  Take 
your  fusion  bomb  as  far  up  the  Rus- 
sian tiuinel  as  you  can  and  set  it 
off  there.  It  will  seal  the  one  tunnel 
and  may  collapse  some  of  their 
others.  Don’t  wak  for  tihe  tunnelling 
crew’s  escort,  but  get  die  crew  start- 


ed back  without  their  escort.  Any 
questions?” 

“No,  Sir.  Over  and  out.”  He  re- 
turned the  micsxiphone  to  Pried- 
mann. 

He  turned  to  Sanchez.  “See  sf  the 
Russians  lelt  any  vehicles  up  ahead 
we  can  im€.  If  not,  'we’U  tovc  to 
bring  a jeep  up  from  the  check- 
point and  t^  to  get  it  through  this 
intercept  tunnel  the  Russians  dug.” 

Sanchez  was  back  shortly.  “Yes, 
there  are  several  Russian  jeeps  and 
a personnel  carrier  up  here.” 

“We’ll  take  one  of  the  jeeps.  I’M 
drive.  Get  me  a Russian  hard  hat 
to  wear.  The  rest  of  you  will  crouch 
down  in  the  back.  And  Sanchez, 
make  sure  that  bomb  is  on  a dead- 
man  setting.  If  they  ambush  us,’  I 
want  to  make  sure  the  bomb  goes 
off.  There  will  be  no  talking  on 
the  way.  They  undoubtedly  have 
the  tunnel  bugged,  and  our  speak- 
ing English  would  tip  them  off.  We’ll 
drive  up  the  tunnel  a couple  of 
miles  and  set  the  bomb.  If  we  get 
to  a checkpoint  before  that,  we’ll 
just  drive  up  to  it  and  start  shoot- 
ing. There’s  no  way  to  sneak  up  on 
a checkpoint  in  a tunnel  like  this.” 

They  drove  swiftly  down  the  tun- 
nel. At  first  it  was  narrow,  low  and 
badly  lighted.  After  a thousand 
yards  or  so,  it  started  to  widen  out; 
then  after  another  thousand  yards, 
it  became  smooth  surfaced  and  lined 
with  concrete.  The  lights  were  now 
set  into  the  ceding  instead  of  hang- 
ing suspended  from  wires.  There 
were  air  vents  set  into  the  wall  at 
regular  intervals,  indicating  that  this 
portion  of  the  tunind  had  forced 
ventilation.  Oeady  this  was  no 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


81 


temporary  or  exploratory  tunnel. 
They  had  tapped  into  one  of  the 
Russian’s  main  tunnels.  Then  they 
saw,  a few  hundred  yards  ahead, 
three  or  four  vehicles  lined  up  along 
the  side  of  the  tunnel.  This  was 
evidently  the  first  Russian  check- 
point. 

Qei^eant  Hodge  drove  up  at  a 
sedate  pace,  apparently  drawing 
no  i>articular  notice  from  the  hand- 
ful of  Russians  bustling  about  the 
veihicles  and  standing  by  the  tun- 
nel well.  They  evidently  saw  no 
cause  for  alarm  in  a single  vehicle, 
driven  by  a single  man  wthose  hard 
hat  had  the  proper  silhouette. 

Sergeant  Hodge  glanced  at  the 
checkpoint  as  he  drove  abreast  of 
it.  Instead  of  the  fjimiliar  little  pock- 
et in  the  side  of  the  tunnel,  used 
by  the  Americans,  this  was  a rather 
elaborate  affair,  with  a small  office 
containing  a desk  and  several  chairs 
behind  a counter  which  fronted  on 
the  tunnel.  From  a small  balcony 
to  one  side,  a pair  of  machine  guns 
covered  the  tunnel,  but  only  one  of 
these  was  manned. 

The  machine  gunner  died  first,  in 
the  fiery  stream  from  Carson’s  flame- 
thrower. The  Russians  standing  in 
the  tunnel  were  cut  down  quickly, 
most  of  them  even  before  they  real- 
ized there  was  a fight  going  on. 
Hodige  lobbed  a grenade  into  the 
office  and  vaulted  over  the  coun- 
ter immediately  after  the  explosion, 
to  make  sure  all  resistance  there  was 
eliminiated.  He  then  turned  back. 

“Williams,  get  one  of  those  Rus- 
sian machine  guns  aimed  up  the 
tunnel,  just  in  case  they  send  some- 


one to  investigate  the  shooting.  Car- 
son,  see  if  one  of  those  vehicles  has 
more  air  in  its  tank  than  ours  does. 
If  so,  we’ll  take  it  instead.  Sanchez, 
get  that  bomb  set  to  detonate  im- 
mediately if  tampered  with  and  set 
the  time  fuse  for  ten  minutes.’’ 
Sergeant  Hodge  then  started  rum- 
maging through  the  desk  drawers. 
Orders,  ledger  sheets,  messages,  per- 
sonal letters,  anything  might  turn 
out  to  be  of  some  value  to  the  In- 
telligence people.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  movement  at  the  back 
door  of  the  office,  swiveled  around 
and  fired  by  reflex.  A figure  pitched 
through  the  doorway  and  face 
down.  Only  then  did  he  notice  the 
long  black  hair  showing  below  the 
uniform  cap.  He  went  over  to  the 
figure  and  turned  it  over.  Below 
the  crown  of  long,  silky  black  hair, 
a pair  of  soft  brown  eyes  stared 
sightlessly  out  of  a young,  pretty, 
Slavic  face.  The  soft,  pleasingly 
rounded  contours  of  her  uniform 
jacket  were  disfigured  by  still- 
spreading dark  splotches. 

“Sergeant  Hodge?’’ 

He  jerked  himself  upright.  “Yes, 
Sanchez?” 

“The  bomb  is  ready  to  go.” 

“Start  the  timer.”  He  reached 
down  and  closed  her  eyelids,  then 
dashed  for  the  jeep. 

IV 

The  debriefing  officer  stared 
across  his  desk  at  Sergeant 
Hodge.  “You’re  sure  that’s  all,  Ser- 
geant?” 

“Yes,  Sir.  I’ve  given  you  all  the 
details  I can  remember.” 


TUNNEL  WARRIOR 


83 


“Then  what’s  eating  you?  You’ve 
never  before  acted  like  this  after  a 
mission.” 

“I  keep  thinking  about  that  Rus- 
sian woman.” 

“So  that’s  it.  Okay,  so  the  Rus- 
sians have  women  in  the  bunkers 
with  them.  They  probably  assign 
them  to  noncombatant  jobs  like 
clerks,  or  cooks  or  communications 
technicians.  And  as  an  additional 
duty,  they  keep  the  troops  happy. 
The  Russians  have  always  been  more 
practical  about  things  like  that  than 
we  have.  If  that’s  what’s  bothering 
you,  ni  recommend  you  for  a 
week’s  R & R in  Paris.  In  fact, 
ril  recommend  your  whole  squad. 
After  a fight  like  that,  you  de- 
serve it  anyway.” 

. Sergeant  Hodge  answered  in  a 
dull  voice.  “rU  accept  your  offer, 
Sir.  We  do  need  the  rest.  But  that 
won’t  really  help.  It  won’t  make  me 
forget  I killed  a young  girl  who  was 
maybe  all  of  twenty  years  old.”  Then 
his  voice  filled  with  anguish.  “Sir, 
I’ve  been  Regular  Army  since  I was 
o^d  enough  to  enlist.  I’ve  been  in 
nv^re  brushfirc  wars,  police  actions 
nnd  border  incidents  than  I can  keep 
track  of.  They  were  all  bloody  and 
caused  a lot  of  people  a lot  of 
grief,  but  at  least  they  seemed  to 
make  sense.  I knew  why  I was  fight- 
inf?,  and  I could  see  how  it  was 
helping  someone.  But  this  is  differ- 
ent. Why  does  a young  girl  like 
that,  who  ought/to  be  courting  or 
going  to  dances  or  whatever  it  is 
that  Russian  girls  do,  have  to  get 
mixed  up  in  the  grubby  business  of 
tunnel  fighting  and  end  up  dead 
on  the  floor  of  a tunniel,  in  a pud- 


dle of  her  own  blood?  Or  how  about 
Tennessee,  who  got  more  fun  out  of 
life  than  any  other  man  I ever  met? 
How  come  he  had  to  die  like  a 
mole,  grappling  with  some  other 
mo-lcs,  in  a dark  stinking  mole  hole 
a quarter  of  a mile  underground? 
It  doesn’t  make  any  sense.  It’s  nodi- 
ing  but  a mess.  How’d  we  ever  get 
into  it  anyway?” 

“The  pendulum  swung  when  we 
weren’t  looking.” 

“What’s  that,  Sir?” 

“Look,  there’s  always  tragedy  in 
war.  If  you  grant  that  war  is  an 
acceptable  means  of  settling  political 
disputes,  then  you  have  to  accept 
a certain  amount  of  the  tragedy  as 
unavoidable,  since  wars  are  usually 
fought  by  the  young  and  healthy. 
But  there’s  a lot  of  tragedy,  like  the 
death  of  that  girl  and  like  the  man- 
ner of  the  death  of  your  friend 
Tennessee,  that’s  really  unneces- 
sary. It  comes  from  being  unprepar- 
ed for  war  or  being  prepared  for 
the  wrong  kind  of  war. 

“You  can  think  of  the  relation 
between  offense  and  defense  in  war 
as  like  a pendukwn.  One  time  the 
offense  is  overwhelming,  then  later 
the  pendulum  swings  and  defense 
is  invulnerable.  Docs  the  term  ‘Mag- 
inot  Line*  mean  anything  to  you?” 
“Umitim,  not  a thing.  Sir.” 

“Well,  let’s  look  at  a bit  of  his- 
tory. Back  in  1914,  everyone  thought 
that  a modem  war  would  be  over 
in  a short  time.  Economists  decreed 
that  highly  integrated  modern  econo- 
my just  couldn’t  stand  the  strain  of 
a prolonged  war,  with  its  disruption 
of  trade.  A war  was  to  be  won  by 
a few  decisive  'battles  right  at  the 


84 


IF 


outset.  The  victor  would  be  the  one 
who  hurled  all  his  offensive  force 
inito  the  battle  first. 

“But  it  didn’t  work  that  way. 
While  everyone  was  busy  planning 
his  offense,  the  pendulum  had  swung 
to  the  defense.  Trenches  protected 
by  barbed  wire  and  machine  guns 
wore  nearly  impregnable.  British  and 
French  attacks  on  German  trenches 
frequently  cost  ten  thousand  dead 
in  a single  day  and  achieved  a pene- 
tration of  the  enemy  lines  of  a few 
hundred  yards  at  most. 

“So  the  French,  in  their  war 
preparations,  decided  to  build  a line 
of  fortifications  along  their  Ger- 
man frontier.  This  was  the  Maginot 
Line,  a steel-and-concrete  super 
trench  which  was  to  be  even  more 
impregnable  than  the  trenches  of 
1918,  while  giving  the  troops  all  the 
comforts  of  home.  But  while  they 
gave  their  attention  to  blueprints 
and  concrete  mixers,  the  pendulum 
swung  back.  The  airplane  and  the 
tank  made  the  offensive  overwhelm- 
ing. 

“So  we  and  everyone  else,  drew 
a lesson  from  this.  Mobility  was  the 
key.  Faster  tanks,  bigger  Armored 
Personnel  Carriers,  more  fighter 
bombers  were  the  answers. 

again  it  didn’t  work 
VV  out  that  way.  If  the  enemy 
uses  nuclear  weapons  against  you, 
you  have  to  dig  in  deep  for  protec- 
tion. 

“How  could  we  have  prepared 
better  for  it,  if  we  had  realized  that 
a defensive  which,  can  withstand  a 
nuclear  weapon  can  surely  withstand 
anything  less?  I don’t  know.  We 


might  have  been  smart  enough  to 
avoid  having  the  war  altogether.  It 
doesn’t  maitter  any  naore.  The  real 
problem  is  how  do  we  get  out  of 
it?  I don’t  know,  and  I don’t  think 
anyone  else  does  either.  There  don’t 
seem  to  be  any  shortcuts.  We  don’t 
bomb  the  Russians’  railroad  m^- 
shalling  yards  because  they’d  bomb 
our  Atlantic  ports  in  retaliation,  and 
no  one  knows  where  the  retaliation 
and  counter  retaliation  would  end. 
Likewise,  they  don’t  send  their  subs 
after  our  shipping,  because  then 
we’d  have  to  bomb  their  sub  pens. 
So  both  sides  are  able  to  harness 
their  entire  Gross  National  Product 
to  war  production  and  send  it  over 
here  where  we’re  engaged  in  a vast 
underground  wrestling  match.  It 
looks  like  it’ll  end  the  same  way 
World  War  I did,  when  one  side 
goes  broke  before  the  other.  I’m  an 
optimist,  after  a fashion.  Since  our 
GNP  is  over  twice  theirs,  I believe 
we’re  bound  to  win  in  the  end.  AH 
it  will  cost  us  is  a couple  of  decades 
of  economic  growth  and  a generation 
of  young  men. 

“Well,  I’ve  said  enough.  On  that 
relatively  pleasant  note  I’ll  end.  En- 
joy your  leave  in  Paris  and  try  to 
come  back  all  charged*  up  and  ready 
to  do  battle  again.” 

Sergeant  Hodge  rose,  saluted  and 
walked  out  glumly.  That  old  familiar 
lump  of  lead  was  back  with  him 
again,  trying  to  pull  him  down 
through  the  floor.  And  this  time, 
he  knew,  it  wasn’t  going  to  go  away. 
It  would  be  with  him  until,  some- 
where in  some  dark  tunnel,  his  luck 
would  run  out  at  last. 

END 


T'JMNEL  WARRIOR 


85 


IF  • Novelette 


ON  THE  EDGE 
OF  THE  GALAXY 

by  ERNEST  HILL 


Illustrated  by  FINLAY 


You  con  get  used  to  anything^ 
out  on  the  for  reoches  of  the 
goloxy  — anything  but  Earth! 


1 

4 4'T^hey’re  coming  in,”  Karlsen 
A announced  in  that  exact,  per- 
functory .way  of  his.  “Bang  on 
schedule.  Beam  391,  approaching 
outer  asteroid  belt.  Decelerating  to 
half  the  speed  of  light.  Should  land 
at  0532  our  time.” 

“That  comiputer’s  always  slow,” 
Spandrel!  goaded  him.  “I  could  work 
it  out  better  with  an  abacus.  If  I had 
an  abacus.” 


“Generals  always  do,”  Ngomo 
grunted. 

I raised  an  eyebrow,  half  to  signi- 
fy that  rank  was  rank  and  generals 
did  as  they  pleased  and  half  to  ask 
what  it  was  they  always. 

“Arrive  on  schedule.  An  hour  be- 
fore first  dawn.” 

“It’s  our  first  visit,”  Spandrell  ar- 
gued. “How  do  you  know  they  come 
half  an  hour  before  first  dawn?” 
“They  do  everywhere  else,” 
Ngomo  said.  “Why  should  this  be 


86 


any  different?  With  any  luck,  Karl- 
sen’s  got  his  beams  mixed  up,  and 
he’ll  land  in  the  swamp.” 

“Could  you  fix  k,  Karlsen?”  Ingles 
asked,  a wry  gleam  in  his  green 
alien  eyes. 

The  time  had  certainly  come  to 
assert  my  authority.  They  were  quite 
capable  of  oraslhing  the  general’s  ship 
without  even  asking  me  first.  That 
is  the  trouble  with  outposts.  A few 
dozen  technicians,  boffins,  admin 
staff,  laiborers,  all  fadnig  the  same 
hazards,  conscious  of  sharing  a com- 
mon identity,  the  bond  of  one  head 
and  two  legs.  A voice  and  a home 
somewhere  in  some  place  out  on  the 
fringe  of  the  galaxy.  All  except  Ingles 
— and  he  was  human  as  the  rest  of 
uis  for  all  his  green  eyes  and  yellow, 
blue -veined  hands.  There  was  a ten- 
dency to  forget  who  was  who.  What 
exactly  a general’s  insignia  looked 
like.  Why  I alone  wear  a khaki  uni- 
form and  carry  a stick.  Why  in  fact 
I was  there  at  all.  For  the  whole 
582  days  of  the  VX  91/6  year  on 
no  day  of  36.7  hours  earth  time  had 
anyone  addressed  me  as  colonel. 
‘Geoff  or  ‘Bud’  — thumbs  up, 
thumbs  down  and  Natascha,  who 
called  me  Boris. 

“Listen,  all  of  you!”  I said.  “Gen- 
eral Kalen’s  'the  boss  of  all  outer- 
fringe  exploration.  We  rely  on  him 
and  the  rest  of  them  down  wherever 
tliey  are  in  the  galaxy  for  supplies. 
This  is  his  first  visit,  and  if  he’s  hap- 
py, it’ll  be  his  last.  He’s  getting  our 
reports  regularly  through  the  electro- 
mag accelerator,  and  he  should 
know  the  difficulties.  He’s  landing 
at  the  right  time  anyway.  If  he 
comes  down  an  hour  before  first 


dawn,  we’ll  have  time  to  get  him 
and  his  craft  under  the  net  before 
the  bombardment.  The  goons  nev- 
er let  loose  before  second  dawn 
with  the  binary  well  above  the 
horizon.  We’ll  have  no  nonsense 
about  ditching  him  in  the  swamp. 
Instead,  we’ll  have  a general  smarten- 
ing up  all  round.  An  air  of  rattling 
efficiency  and  — what’s  - that  thing 
called?” 

“Esprit  de  corps!”  Karlsen 
prompted. 

“Esprit  de  corps  — what?” 

“Esprit  de  corps.  Colonel!” 
“That’s  better!”  I looked  round 
at  the  heavy,  masklike  faces,  pale 
in  the  harsh  light  of  the  luminoid 
slung  from  the  dome  of  the  steel 
beehive  structure  I termed  my  H.Q. 
The  hodge-pKxlge  of  equipment, 
bunks,  tables,  chairs,  desks  with 
ledgers,  coffee  pots  and  beakers. 
There  was  a dart  board  on  the  wall 
backed  by  a map  of  the  outer  seven 
colonial  spheres.  Some  pictures  by 
Ingles,  an  incredibly  observant  artist, 
of  Natascha  posed  like  an  Hama- 
dryad on  a petrified  log.  There  was 
an  auroch’s  head  with  a hook  on 
its  nose  and  quoits  for  throwing  at  it. 
Pretty  general  stuff  for  an  outstation. 
Nothing  much,  I thought,  to  im- 
press the  general  with  what  we  were 
all  there  for.  What  were  we  here  for? 
There  wasn’t  much  in  the  outer 
seven,  and  one  planet  looked  very 
like  another. 

Karlsen  threw  a switch  and  pro- 
jected a hazy  outline  of  a ship 
with  retromotors  firing  against  a 
background  of  stars  and  someone’s 
smudged  thumb-print  on  the  screen. 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY 


87 


“Here  he  comes!”  he  said, 
Ngomo  sighed  and  shook  bis  head, 
*l'd  better  get  the  cait  out  cm  the 
landing  strii)  and  ‘bring  him  in  fast.” 
“Fast  — what?” 

“Past  — Coionell” 

Spandrel  unhooked  his  helmet 
from  the  main  switch  of  the  eleotro- 
mag  accelerator.  “Okay  to  use  land- 
ing lights,  or  will  that  invite  the 
goons  to  lob  one  over  just  for  luek?” 
he  asked. 

“They’ve  never  fired  one  in  the 
dark  yet.  Lights  look  like  someone 
lives  here.  Use  them!”  I decided. 
“He’s  coming  in  on  the  beam  all 
right?” 

“Right  in  the  beam,  Colonel!” 

I snapped  my  fingers,  and  Wal- 
dron brought  my  helmet  and  levita- 
tor  harness.  Grinning,  he  fixed  the 
straps. 

“I  come  with  you.  Colonel?” 

I thought  about  it.  It  looked  better 
to  have  an  aide,  even  an  obvious  im- 
becile like  Waldron,  whose  nerve 
had  gone  the  day  we  discovered  Ras- 
tus.  Rastus  had  taken  a fancy  to 
Waldron  and  pinioned  him  with  a 
friendly  tentacle.  It  bad  taken  all 
Natascha’s  coaxing  to  make  hkn  let 
go,  and  Waldron  had  never  been  the 
same  man  since.  But  he  was  loyal 
and  useful  and  harmless  and  a 
presence  to  stand  behind  me.  With 
any  luck  the  general  would  no-t  no- 
tice the  grin  ‘under  the  fish  bowl  of 
his  helmet  and  the  twitch  of  the 
hands  in  his  mittens. 

“Come  along!”  I said.  My  voice 
rasped  with  a new  electronic  note  of 
authority  with  the  headspeaker  in 
place.  “It’s  ‘colonel’  from  now  on 
and  jump  to  it.  Let  him  see  us  as  a 


highly  efiricient  little  force  holding 
out  against  kisuiperiable  odds.  Let 
him  see  Rastus  and  a Goon  bom- 
bardment, and  we’ll  all  get  medals 
and  go  home.  If  he  thinks  some- 
one else  could  do  it  better,  you’ll 
have  a new  C.O.  and  regiments  of 
space  administrators  and  the  military. 
Do  you  want  bull  and  the  goons 
too?” 

“No,”  they  said.  “No,  Colonel!” 

“Right!”  I ordered.  “Open  up, 
and  let’s  go  meet  him!”  . 

“Sir!”  Inglis  snapped  to  attention 
and  Mcked  the  activates:  mechanism 
wkh  one  of  his  prehensile  suckers. 
The  inner  door  to  the  airlock  open- 
ed, and  Natascha  stepped  out. 

“Why,  Boris!”  she  said. 

“TeU  her!”  I ordered  them.  “And 
see  to  it  she  understands!” 

Ngomo  brought  a cat  round  to 
the  door,  and  I climbed  aboard  with 
Waldron  and  Spandrell.  Ngomo 
drove  us  through  the  little  cluster  of 
beehives  that  made  up  our  station 
to  the  perimeter  of  the  chain-link 
dome  that  covered  the  safety  area. 
Spandrel  heaved  on  the  pulleys  that 
raised  a few  yards  of  the  curtain  high 
enough  for  Ngomo  to  get  the  cat 
through. 

“Leave  it  up!”  I ordered.  “Tlic 
bubbles  won’t  find  that  hole  be- 
fore we  get  back!” 

II 

We  drove  to  the  air  strip,  and  a 
hundred-square-meter  postage 
stamp  cleared  in  the  waving  marsh 
grass  at  a safe  distance  from  ^ 
Rastus  swamp.  We  had  made  the 
track  from  the  boles  of  ossified  trees 


88 


IF 


and  the  mud  from  the  swamp  that 
dried  quickly  like  aspalt.  On  either 
side,  the  ground  was  wet  and  spongy 
and  blaok  wkh  the  debris  of  ancient 
forests  like  soft,  glutinous  coal. 

“Blowing  a gale  as  usual.”  Ngomo, 
himself  as  black  as  the  swamp,  had 
a way  of  noticing  the  obvious  and 
the  worst  of  it  at  that.  Show  him 
a pearl,  and  he  would  see  only  the 
oyster.  The  night  was  brilliant  silver 
in  the  light  of  the  three  moons.  Aglia, 
Euphrosyne  and  Thalia.  We  had 
thought  it  a pity  to  give  them  the 
usual  numbers  after  the  second  obli- 
que stroke.  VX  91/6/1,  2 and  3. 

The  stark  beauty  of  it  all  moved 
Waldron  to  quote  from  a forgotten 
earth  poet.  “How  sweet  the  moon- 
light sleeps  upon  this  bank!”  A 
long  way,  I thought,  from  that  bank 
of  the  wild  thyme  and  the  sin- 
gle moon  and  winds  that  blew  air 
one  breathed  and  smelled  and  used 
to  turn  windmills  with.  No  one  knew 
what  this  wind  was  made  of.  It  de- 
fied all  analysis.  It  was  not  just  a 
new  grouping  of  atoms  into  an  un- 
known molecular  structure.  Even 
the  atom  itself  was  different.  Energy 
in  a form  that  became  wind  blowing 
wi!h  the  dawns  from  the  goon  land, 
but  sotmehow  the  swamp  grass  ab- 
sorbed it.  No  photosynthesis.  No 
chlorophyll.  Just  tall,  yellow,  osier- 
like  grass  that  sucked  up  water  and 
a dozen  unnamed  minerals  with  a 
breathing  in  and  oqt  of  wind.  We 
turned  our  faceshields  to  the  sky. 
Above  US,  the  approaching  fire  of 
the  ship's  motors  was  suddenly  ex- 
tinguisihod. 

“Retros  cut,  parachutes  open. 
Landing  now!”  Karlsen’s  voice  an- 


nounced in  my  headphones.  The 
radar  confirmed  the  evidence  of  my 
eyes.  I was  surprised.  You  never 
knew  with  Karlsen,  and  we’d  hump- 
ed his  equipment  around  so  many 
planets.  One  day  we’d  find  a gas  his 
beams  wouldn’t  go  through,  and 
then  perhaps  tiie  bigwigs  would  leave 
us  alone. 

“There  it  is,”  Ngoma  pointed. 
“Coming  out  of  the  sky  wobbling 
like  a belly  dancer’s  navel.  This  wind 
should  shake  him  up  a bit.” 

“Thou  art  not  more  unkind,” 
Waldron  quoted,  “than  man’s  in- 
gratitude.” He  refrred,  I thought, 
to  the  wind  rather  than  to  Ngomo’s 
belly  dancer.  We  waited,  and  the  long 
arms  of  the  landing  gear  extended 
as  the  ship  touched  down  safely  on 
the  strip.  The  loud  speakers  blared 
the  supranational  anthem  “God  save 
our  glorious  world”  from  the  four 
corners  of  our  postage  stamp.  A hap- 
py thought  on  Karlsen’s  part,  who 
apparently  had  it  on  tape  in  the  H.Q. 
The  general  came  down  the  ladder 
clearly  impressed.  His  hand  was 
raised  in  salute,  fingers  touching  the 
tips  of  helmet  antennae. 

“Welcome  to  VX91/6,  General!” 

“Glad  to  be  here,  Carruthers. 
Glad  to  be  here.” 

He  took  a look  round  for  a guard 
of  honor  needing  inspection,  and  a 
lot  of  aides  came  down  the  ladder 
behind,  keeping  step  rung  by  rung. 
I looked  apprehensively  at  that  point 
on  the  horizon  we  called,  for  nostal- 
gic reasons,  east.  Already,  purple  and 
orange  rays  were  flashing  upwards 
from  the  general  area  where  soon  the 
arc  of  the  first  ball  of  the  binary 
would  blink,  to  be  followed  in  ten 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY 


89 


minutes  by  its  twin  and  second  dawn. 
Purple  merging  with  orange,  a 
green-gold  and  then,  just  before  full 
binary,  a new  color,  indescribable 
in  earth  words.  We  had  named  it 
auron  — the  halo  of  the  new  world. 
VX91/6.  The  gang  rushed  to  the 
derricks  and  was  lowering  the  ships 
nose  down  towards  the  transporter 
almost  before  the  general  set  foot 
for  the  first  time  on  our  planet.  I 
led  him  quickly  to  the  cat.  The  aides 
followed  in  single  file. 

“Come  aboard,  General.” 

“You  certainly  hustle  here,  Car- 
ruthers.  I like  to  see  hustle.”  So  that 
was  my  name!  I had  wondered. 
“Yes,  General.  Come  aboard.” 

“So  this  is  VX  91/6?” 

“All  of  it,  General.  We  can  get 
your  staff  on  too  if  they  pack  tight.” 
“Is  it  all  as  dead  as  this?” 

“Quite  dead,  General.  Up  you 
come!  It’s  nearly  first  dawn.” 

“And  that  would  be  the  dawn  over 
there?  A magnificent  sight.” 

“Marvelous.  There’s  very  little 
time,  General.  The  bomibardment 
starts  at  second  dawn.” 

The  general’s  hand  strayed  to  the 
lumivex  shield  of  his  headpiece, 
unconsciously  stroking  upwards  the 
outline  of  an  imaginary  mustache. 

“My  dear  Carruthers!  I have  been 
under  fire  before,  you  know.  This 
concern  for  my  safety  is  hardly  neces- 
sary. I remember  once  on  XL  65  — 
glass  shells,  they  were.  Shrapnel. 
Jagged  lumps  of  it.  And  then  on  TS 
20,  the  theta  rays.  I have  managed 
to  survive.  What  form  does  your 
bombard me^nt  take?  Your  reports 
were  somewhat  reticent.” 


“Bubbles!”  Waldron  began  to 
sing.  “Empty  bubbles  in  the  air, 
they  fell  to  earth  I knew  not  where.” 
“Quite,”  said  the  general,  glaring 
at  him  with  two  bright  eyes  inside 
his  helmet.  “Your  name  would 
be  . . .?” 

“Waldron,”  I introduced,  “My  — 
er  — side-kick.” 

“Side-kick?” 

“No,”  I said,  “that’s  not  the  right 
word,  is  it?  We’ve  been  away  so  long, 
I forget  which  is  rank  proper  and 
which  is  rank  derogatory.  He’s  a 
good  chap  anyway.” 

The  general  was  making  some 
noises  about  being  sure  he  was  and 
meaning  sure  he  wasn’t,  when  I saw 
the  bubble.  It  was  drifting  in  the 
apparent  aimless,  coquettish  way  of 
bubbles  over  the  swamp  grass,  bob- 
bing up  and  down  in  the  wind.  The 
dawn  lights  were  reflected,  sparkling 
on  its  surface  like  patterns  of  one 
oil  drop  in  a puddle. 

“Everyone  down!”  I shouted. 

The  ship  crashed  on  to  the  trans- 
porter with  an  almighty  clang  as 
the  gang  dived  beneath  it.  Ngomo 
and  Waldron  flattened  themselves  on 
the  lee  side  of  the  cat.  Only  the 
general  and  his  half  dozen  aides 
stood,  for  all  the  world  like  a row 
of  gasoline  pumps  with  notebooks 
and  pencils  in  the  crook  of  an  arm 
where  the  notch  for  the  no2zle  should 
have  been.  I brought  him  down  with 
a Rugby  tackle,  and  his  staff  follow- 
ed their  leader  in  the  best  military 
tradition.  He  said  something  like 
‘monstrous’  or  ‘outrageous’  or 
‘court  martial’  — it  was  difficult  to 
get  the  exact  message.  His  antennae 
had  twisted  with  the  fall,  and  there 


90 


IF 


was  some  disitCHtion.  Fortunately  for 
aU  of  us,  before  anydiing  decipher- 
able came  Itirough,  the  bubble 
swooped*  and  the  cal  was  vaporized 
in  a puff  of  hot  steam. 

‘"Lie  still!”  I shouted.  “Don’t  do 
anything  to  annoy  it,  and  perhaps 
it’ll  go  away!” 

We  were  never  sure  whether  the 
bubbles  could  hear  us  or  not.  Bubbles 
are  very  like  the  god-in-chief  that 
every  planet  seemed  to  have.  You 
never  knew  if  they  really  existed  or 
how  they  stood  in  relation  to  yours, 
and  you  treated  them  with  respect, 
just  in  case.  Left  alone,  the  bubbles 
never  came  down  to  ground  level. 
They  concentrated  on  anything 
metal.  We  had  lost  a lot  of  equip- 
ment that  way  but  so  far,  with  pru- 
dence, not  a single  man.  An  aide 
cautiously  straightened  the  general’s 
antennae,  an  action  I thought  worthy 
of  a purple  heart  or  whatever  it  is 
they  give  heroes  these  days. 

“What  is  it?”  he  asked  when  the 
operation  was  completed. 

“The  bombardment,”  I told  him. 
“They’re  early  today.  They  probably 
knew  you  were  coming.  We’ll  move 
before  they  all  are  able  to  get  the 
range.” 

The  bubble  drifted  away  over  a 
hummock  of  phosphorescent  horn- 
blende Natascha  had  sculpted  into  a 
fair  semblance  of  .an  X60  man-eating 
frog-goddess  and  down  the  track 
toward  our  enclosure.  It  would  even- 
tuiaUy  expend  itself  on  the  protec- 
tive netting  which  channeled  its  en- 
ergy store  to  earth  or  at  least  to  VX 
91.  The  gang  climbed  aboard  the 
transporter  and  started  the  motors. 
There  was  a general  rush  to  get  home 


before  the  next  one  came  floating 
downwind. 

“We’ll  walk,”  I told  the  general. 
“I  wouldn’t  like  to  be  near  your 
ship  if  they  get  it.” 

“Get  my  ship?”  he  asked  in- 
credulously. 

“They  get  everything,”  I said. 
“We’ve  got  one,  but  it’s  no  use  to  a 
general.  It  was  obsolescent  years  ago, 
and  the  maintenance  team  all  went 
down  with  U.26  plague  before  we 
found  the  antidote.  In  fifty  yeafs,  it’s 
never  seen  an  oU-can.” 

“I  see,”  be  said. 

“We’ll  go  by  the  swamp,”  I direct- 
ed. “We’re  safer  with  Rastus.  Rastus 
kno'ws  all  about  bubbles.” 

“Anything  you  say,  Carruthers,” 
he  agreed.  “Anything  you  say.”  His 
helmet  was  overlarge,  and  his  head 
inside  reminded  me  of  a hermit  crab 
in  a cockle  shell. 

m 

There  were  no  more  bubbles,  and 
Rastus  was  apparently  asleep. 
Not  a ripple  on  the  swamp  stirred 
as  we  made  our  way  along  the  po- 
rous, black-treacle,  spongy  track.  I 
threw  a large  diamond  from  one  of 
the  bank  meteorites  in  bis  usual  half 
mile  area  of  ooze,  but  not  even  a 
tentacle  showed. 

“Was  that  a diamond?”  a major 
asked. 

“Yes,”  I said.  “No  volue  here  of 
course.  You  can  pick  up  a ton  any- 
where in  the  outer  periphery.” 
Someone  mentioned  there  was  re- 
serve energy  in  the  general’s  ship 
and  we  could  use  the  levitators.  We 
wore  ours  more  from  habit  than  for 


92 


IF 


flight;  we  were  always  short  of 
poww. 

**Oood  old  Kalen,”  I 
“With  energy  on  his  ship.  I wonder 
if  we  can  whip  a generator  or  two 
before  he  goes.” 

We  sailed  back  to  camp  over  the 
grass  and  the  hroiken,  dead  trees  and 
arrived  at  the  same  time  as  the 
transporter.  I invited  them  all  to 
coffee  in  the  H.Q.  I wanted  to  see 
KaJen  without  his  headgear.  He 
looked  the  sort  of  general  that  all 
generals  try  to  look  like.  Clipped 
mustache;  bright,  steely  eyes;  lan- 
tern jaw;  creases  down  either  cheek 
so  deep  his  Roman  nose  jutted  like 
a letter  L in  brackets.  He  sat  with 
his  back  bolt  upright.  A strain,  I 
thought,  on  the  belly  that  nature  had 
built  to  sag  a little.  Natascha  brought 
coffee,  and  the  bright  eyes  mapped 
her  contours  with  battlefield  pre- 
cision. 

“Hem!”  he  said.  “Er  — yes. 
Hem!” 

“Natascha  Kaminskaya,”  I mtro- 
duced.  “Originally,  when  we  all  came 
togeliher  as  a team  about  seventy- 
five  years  ago,  our  medical  officer. 
Now  our  phagocytes  cope  with  any- 
thing, and  she  only  has  an  occasional 
broken  leg  to  slip  in  the  autosettcr. 
She’s  become  our  universal  femme 
fatale.  We  share  her.  On  a strictly 
rota  basis  of  course,”  The  military, 
I remembered,  are  always  impressed 
by  rotas. 

“It’s  fun,”  Natascha  told  him. 

“It  must  be,”  he  murmured.  He 
rose  to  his  full  height  and  stroked 
his  mustache.  Inclining  his  head,  he 
gestured  me  to  follow  him  to  a point 
away  from  the  others  secluded  be- 


hind aa  applied  atmo^here  geo^a- 
tor. 

“b  she  all  Slight?”  he  asked. 

“Marvelous,”  I said.  “You  want  to 
slip  in  on  the  iota?” 

“I  mean,”  he  enapped,  “is  she  all 
i%ht  poMcaflly?  She  appeals  to  be 
a Russtam” 

“Is  she?”  I wasn’t  at  all  sure  about 
Russia.  It  was  the  had  half ’of  some 
planet  or  other,  hut  I had  forgotten 
which. 

“And  then,”  he  went  on,  “that 
chap  whh  die  suckers  sprouting  out 
of  his  shoulders.  Where  exactly  is 
he  from?  You  can’t  be  too  careful, 
you  know.” 

“Ingles?”  Where  had  we  found 
Ingles?  Somewhere  down  Earth  way 
— Barnard’s  Star  perhaps.  “Ingles 
is  one  of  the  best,”  I said.  “You 
should  see  him  dicing  — hands 
against  sudeexs.  He  is  quite  schizo- 
phrenic. The  sudeers  belong  to  the 
older  half  of  his  development,  and 
they’re  controlled  by  an  antique 
corner  of  his  brain.  No  connection 
with  the  humanoid  that  runs  his 
hands.  At  ati  his  games,  the  hands 
win.” 

Natascha  was  han^ng  round  the 
coffee  we  always  laced  with  a YK 
61  rum  we  had  brought  along  in  a 
tanker.  Ingles  was  already  raising 
his  beaker.  A reflective  sip  when 
the  hands  held  it  and  a long  gulp 
when  the  suckers  took  their  turn. 
The  sight  of  it  seemed  to  trigger  off 
some  reaction  in  the  general’s  adre- 
nal-sympathico  system.  He  snatched 
a beaker  from  Natascha^  drew  him- 
self to  his  full  height  and  cleared 
his  throat.  The  aides  snapped  to  at- 
tention. He  raised  his  ^ass  appar- 


DN  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY 


93 


ently  in  invocation  to  the  genius 
loci.  \ 

“The  president!”  he  bawled. 

“The  president!”  the  aides  echoed 

“Who  is  president  of  where  now?” 
Ingles  whispered.  I twitched  an  eye- 
brow, and  he  subsided.  I hadn’t  the 
least  idea.  Presidents  came  and  went. 
The  drill,  I took  it,  was  to  toast  the 
idea  of  an  office  rather  than  an  per- 
son. Everyone,  everywhere  drinks  to 
something  they  believe  the  giver  of 
all  things  good.  We  often  toast 
Natascha.  Why  not  a president?  It 
was  all  the  same  to  me. 

The  general  sat  and  extended  his 
legs  to  their  full  length  resting  on  the 
heels  of  his  high,  brown  leather 
boots.  He  thought  it  time  to  un- 
bend, to  show  himself  benignly  hu- 
man like  the  rest  of  us  with  a big 
heart  under  the  Sam  Browne  belt. 
But  he  was  cautious.  He  wasn’t  that 
sure  of  us  yet. 

Ctnpell  me,”  he  asked.  “What  ex- 
A actly  is  the  military  position?” 

“The  military  position,”  I said,  “is 

— well  — myself.  The  rest  of  us 
here  are  sort  of  civilians.  We  had 

— I think  you  call  them  soldiers  — 
in  fair  numbers  when  we  set  out. 
Somehow  they  all  succumbed,  and 
the  civilians  survived.  The  heroes,  if 
I remember  rightly,  went  first,  then 
the  not-so-heroic  and  so  on  down 
the  scale  to  me.  We  set  out  original- 
ly to  look  for  — what  was  it?” 

“Titanium  ore.”  Karlsen  said. 

“Zirconium!”  Spandrell  thought. 

“What’s  zirconium?”  Ingles  asked. 

“There  wasn’t  any.”  I completed. 

“I  was  referring,”  General  Kalen 
said  slowly,  “to  the  strategic  position 


of  your  encampment  and  the  de- 
ployment of  the  enemy  forces.  Who 
or  what  is,  in  fact,  responsible  for 
the  bubbles  you  call,  rather  oddly, 
the  bombardment?” 

“Oh,  those,”  I told  him.  “That’s 
the  goons.” 

“And  who  or  what  are  the 
goons?” 

“We  don’t  exactly  know.  They 
live,  we  believe,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  marshes.” 

“And  what  kind  of  creatures  are 
they?” 

“Anthropoid!”  Karlsen  snapped. 

“Humanoid!”  Ingles  almost  agreed 
with  him. 

“Duodecapods!”  Ngomo  shouted. 

It  was  the  old  argument.  Only 
humanoids  would  want  to  play  with 
that  sort  of  energy,  and  only  duode- 
capods would  know  how  to. 

“We  don’t  know,”  I explained. 
“We’ve  never  seen  one.  Their  whole 
territory  is  encased  in  a kind  of  bub- 
ble, miles  across,  very  likely  made  of 
the  same  energy  substance  as  their 
missiles.  You  can’t  fly  through  it; 
metal  dissolves  on  contact  with  it  and 
generates  considerable  heat.  You  can 
see  through  it,  but  it’s  like  looking 
at  the  sea-bed  with  a light  swell 
running.  It’s  rippling  and  distorted. 
Every  morning  at  second  dawn,  the 
wind  rises,  and  pieces  of  bubble  ap- 
pear to  detach  themselves  from  the 
main  structure  and  float  down  here 
looking  for  us.  That’s  goon  bombard- 
ment. We  think  the  bubbles  may  be 
sentient.” 

“How  big  an  area  have  you  pros- 
pected so  far?” 

“Only  our  camp  under  the  chain- 
link  dome  and  the  air  strip.” 


94 


IF 


“Is  that  all?” 

“It’s  big  enough.  The  rest  of  the 
planet  is  dead.  Marsh  and  swamp 
and  the  goon  bubble.  Everything 
died  a long  time  ago  except  . . 

“Marsh  and  swamp!”  Waldron 
shrieked. 

I had  forgotten.  We  never  men- 
tioned the  swamp  in  his  presence. 
He  tihrew  a fit  and  sobbed.  The  gen- 
eral treated  us  all  to  a long,  cold 
look.  He  seemed  not  to  like  what  he 
saw.  The  aides  were  writing  rapidly 
in  their  notebooks,  and  a major  tech- 
nologist was  walking  curiously 
around  our  equipment,  showing  inter- 
est in  a spiral  of  copper  tubing  in  a 
stainless  steel  vat.  It  looked  like  — 
and  it  was  — a still. 

“The  titanium  ore,”  the  general 
asked  slowly.  “The  spectrograph 
showed  titanium.  Have  you  really 
prospected  for  it?” 

“Have  we?”  I asked  my  staff. 

“The  titaniuim  is  in  goon  territory,” 
Karlsen  came  to  my  rescue.  “Under 
the  bubble.” 

“In  the  swamp!”  Waldron  giggled. 
He  screamed  again. 

“What’s  titanium?”  Ingles  asked. 

“Note  this!”  the  general  an- 
nounced. His  aides  raised  their  pen- 
cils and  gathered  around  him.  “In 
all  my  experience,  I have  never  visit- 
ed a station  so  — strangely  — con- 
ducted as  this.  The  light-years  be- 
tween your  colony  and  Earth  are  no 
excuse  for  an  absence  of  discipline  — 
of  objective  — even,  it  appears,  of 
mental  balance.”  He  looked  at  Wal- 
dron. “You  have  been  here  five 
years  ...” 

“Two!”  Karlsen  interrupted. 

“I  refer,”  the  general  snapped. 


“to  the  accepted  reckoning  in  all 
civilized  stations.  That  is,  in  Earth 
years.  Earth  time  has  a mystic, 
transcendental  significance.  It  is  ab- 
solute, true  cosmic  time.  The  length 
of  your  day  and  the  duration  of  the 
VX91/6  orbit  around  its  parents 
VX90  and  91  are  irrelevant  to  this 
true  time,  and  I repeat  therefore  that 
in  five  years  you  have  succeeded  in 
achieving  precisely  nothing.  You 
have  been  together,  you  say,  for 
seventy-five  years,  and  you  must  all 
be  in  the  region  of  two  hundred 
years  old.  An  age  of  discretion.  Of 
maturity  even.  What  have  you 
achieved  on  your  previous  missions?” 

“We’ve  survived,”  I said.  “And 
that  has  been  achievement  in  it- 
self.” 

“Utterly  negative!”  he  snapped. 

“Positive  from  our  point  of  view,” 

I countered. 

“I  am  a reasonable  man,”  he  con- 
tinued. “I  would  accept  failure 
brought  about  by  insuperable  ob- 
stacles. Alien  predominance,  for  in- 
stance. But  what  are  your  aliens? 
What  is  their  strength?  You  appear 
not  to  know.  What  meaures  have 
you  taken  to  defeat  them?  None  at 
all  that  I can  see.  Where  is  the 
titanium?  Where  is  the  zirconium? 
Have  you  any  idea  of  the  cost  to 
Earth  of  these  types  of  survey  mis- 
sions? They  have  to  be  paid  for. 
They  have  to  show  a profit  in  the 
minerals  shipped  back  to  the  mother 
planet.  That  way  lies  survival.  True 
survival  in  the  communal  sense.  A 
small  planet  the  master  of  the  uni- 
verse, the  storehouse  of  all  the 
treasures  the  universe  can  offer  it. 
And  how  does  Earth  obtain  these 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY 


95 


treasures?  By  the  self-sacrifice,  gal- 
lanitiy,  deiteoninatioii  qf  ks  m&rchmt 
fleete  and  ithe  surveys  earned  out  by 
teams  such  as  youirs.  Teams  which 
should  be  inspired  by  the  same  sense 
of  advefiture  that  sent  die  Vikings 
to  North  America,  the  early  French- 
men to  the  moon.*’  He  paiused  and 
swaMowed  two  purple  tablets.  His 
eyes  brightened,  and  the  pupils  con- 
tacted. 

“Well,  Oarruthers?”  he  asked  sour- 
ly. “And  what  explanation  have  you 
to  offer?” 

1 looked  round  my  staff.  Karlsen, 
blond,  bearded,  hunched  over  his 
electronic  paraphernalia.  Spandrel, 
short  and  fat,  biting  his  fingernails. 
Ingles,  young,  yellow  and  handsome, 
mustac^oed,  easily  erect,  doing  his 
best  to  appear  battleworthy.  Yellow 
hands  on  hips  and  shoulder  tendrils 
coiled,  Medusa-fashion,  around  his 
neck.  It  was  Natascha,  who  came  to 
the  rescue. 

“I  think  Rastus  would  know  about 
the  goons  and  about  the  titanium. 
Rastus  knows  most  things.” 

“Of  course!”  I agreed.  “The  gen- 
eral must  certainly  meet  Rastus!” 

“I  should  ibe  pleased  to  meet  any- 
one,” he  said  stiffly,  “who  could  give 
me  a simple  answer  to  a simple  ques- 
tion.” He  was  watching  Waldron 
crouched  behind  the  distillery  and 
sucking  at  a hip  flask  like  a hungry 
calf  at  the  udder. 

“That’s  settled  then,”  I announced. 
“Shall  we  go  right  away,  or  will  you 
have  breakfast  first?  Hydroponic 
melons  and  imported  protein?  We 
usuaiy  manage  on  the  coffee.” 
“Oan’t  you  send  for  him?”  the 


general  asked.  It  was  really  laugh- 
able. How  litde  the  higber^ups  knew 
about  the  cosmos  they  commanded. 
Even  Karlsen’s  beard  bobbed  with 
suppressed  amusement.  Natascha 
took  his  arm  maternally.  Natascha 
could  be  very  persuasive. 

“Come  with  us,”  she  said.  “We 
will  show  you  Rastus.”  I nodded  to 
Ingles,  who  opened  the  inner  door 
of  the  airlock. 

“Just  you  and  me  and  the  colonel. 
General,”  she  said.  “Rastus  might 
not  like  a crowd.” 

He  allowed  us  to  fix  his  helmet 
and  harness  and  lead  him  into  the 
airlock.  The  aides  sighed  and  sat. 

“Weapons?”  he  asked  “Where  are 
your  weapons?” 

“We  never  carry  any,”  I told  him. 
It  had  been  Natascha’s  idea.  Natas- 
cha had  said  it  was  wrong  to  kill  the 
natives  of  a new  planet  just  because 
they  were  non-humanoid,  frightful 
or  strange.  She  had  proved  her  point 
the  first  day  we  met  Rastus.  I want- 
ed to  shoot  at  him;  but  Natascha  had 
stopped  me,  and  we  had  just  stood 
and  watched  him  unfoil.  Looking 
back  I think  we  had  be«i  braver 
than  most  heroes.  Somehow,  Rastus 
had  understood.  He  was  now  very 
fond  of  Natascha,  and  we  look  on 
him  as  quite  one  of  the  family. 

It  is  just  as  well.  He  is  quite  in- 
vulnerable. 

IV 

We  walked  down  to  the  swamp, 
Natascha  chattering  to  the 
general  and  asking  him  what  the 
girls  were  wearing  on  Earth  and  if 
he  would  hke  to  take  Ingles’s  place 


96 


IF 


ON  THE  EDGE  OP  THE  GALAXY 


97 


on  tihe  rota  that  night.  The  general 
seemed  preoccupied  and  almost,  for 
a general,  ungallant.  He  said  “Niet!” 
once  or  twice,  using  some  language 
which,  if  we  had  ever  known  it,  we 
had  long  forgotten.  Natascha  took  it 
as  affirmative  and  said,  how  nice 
and  she  would  tell  Ingles.  1 thought 
1 saw  his  antennae  twitch. 

“Well?”  he  said,  when  we  reached 
the  bank. 

“We  are  somewhere  about  the 
center  of  him,”  she  said.  “I’ll  call 
him  up.”  She  stirred  the  ooze  with 
her  foot  and  called  “Rastus!” 

The  effect  was,  to  the  uninitiated, 
quite  remarkable.  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  to  right  and  left  of  us, 
the  swamp  began  to  stir  and  eddy  as 
Rastus’s  mileTong  tentacles  twitched 
and  their  extremities  with  the  little 
mouths  with  the  extra-retinal  percep- 
tion opened  and  closed.  One  of 
them  — we  had  never  been  sure 
how  many  there  were  — sensed  her 
presence,  arched  up  into  the  sky 
and  then  plunged  downwards  to 
stroke  her  faceshield. 

“Darling!”  she  cooed. 

The  general  sat  without  a mur- 
mur on  a petrified  log  while  two 
extra-retinal  mouths  looked  him 
over.  They  snapped  menacingly  un- 
til Natascha  put  an  arm  round  him, 
when  the  tentacles  linked  themselves 
in  a knot  apd  the  mouths  looked  at 
each  other  in  the  tongue. 

“What  is  it?”  he  asked. 

“We  don’t  quite  know,”  I told  him. 
“We’ve  never  seen  all  of  him.  He’s 
quite  a boy,  isn’t  he?”  I felt  a kind 
of  proprietary  pride  in  Rastus,  like 
a suburban  householder  with  a liver 
and  white  Great  Dane. 


“He’s  — this  — knows  about  the 
bubbles,  the  titanium,  the  goons?”  he 
asked. 

“Til  ask  him,”  she  said.  “Rastus!” 
She  cooed.  “The  bubbles.  The  round 
things.”  She  made  circular  gestures 
with  her  arms  and  pursed  her  lips, 
puffing  inside  her  helmet. 

The  three  mouths  unwound  and 
studied  her,  swaying  rhythmically 
from  side  to  side.  I drew  bubbles 
with  the  heel  of  my  boot  in  the 
spongy  soil.  I surrounded'  them  with 
radial  lines  like  the  rising  suns’  rays. 
I didn’t  know  how  to  draw  titanium. 

The  whole  performance  must  have 
puzzled  Rastus,  because  for  the  first 
time  in  two  years  — our  time  — 
the  whole  of  him  emerged.  We  had 
never  seen  his  head  before.  In  fact, 
we  had  wondered  if  he  had  a head, 
since  he  seemed  to  manage  so  well 
without  one.  It  came  up  now  like 
the  rock  of  Gibraltar,  and,  to  Natas- 
cha’s delight,  he  had  a real  eye  in 
addition  to  the  light-sensitive  mouths. 
It  was  about  the  size  of  the  average 
radiotelescope  bowl  and  would  have 
fitted  nicely  into  the  circle  of  Stone- 
henge. The  iris  was  purple,  and  the 
pupil  deep  jet  black.  It  was  a friend- 
ly, intelligent  and  highly  perceptive 
eye. 

“Rastus,  you’re  beautiful,”  Natas- 
cha whispered.  I don’t  think  he  knew 
the  words  she  used,  but  like  a petted 
dog,  he  gathered  the  gist  of  the 
sound  and  inference.  A lid,  like  the 
dome  of  Saint  Paul’s  tilting,  came 
down  out  of  the  rocky  mountain  of 
head,  and  the  green-black  hue  of  the 
bulbous  undercarriage  and  the  sup- 
{X)rting  tentacles,  twenty-five  of 
them,  turned  slightly  salmon-pink. 


98 


IF 


Rastus,  all  two  miles  of  him,  was 
blushing. 

“The  bubbles,  Rastus!”  I asked 
him,  since  he  seemed  rapidly  to  be 
getting  the  significance  of  words. 
“What  do  we  do  about  the  bubbles?” 

The  head  tilted  forward,  and  the 
great  eye  hung  above  us,  watch- 
ing as  we  gestured,  and  drew  pic- 
tures. Then  he  seemed  to  understand. 

Three  tentacles  whipped  from  un- 
der him,  circled  our  waists  and  whisk- 
ed us  skyward  to  a height  of  abo-ut 
half  a mile.  We  could  see  the  bubble 
of  the  goons  clearly  in  the  light  of 
the  rising  suns.  We  could  also  see, 
what  we  had  long  suspected,  that 
apart  from  the  dome  and  our  own 
encampment  the  planet  from  horizon 
to  horizon  was  flat  and  dead,  a 
world  where  only  the  yellow  marsh 
grass  waved  around  the  black  ooze 
oif  the  swamps.  Rastus  held  us  aloft 
until  we  had  seen  all  there  was  to 
see,  and  then  the  whole  of  him  be 
gan  to  move.  By  contracting  his  for- 
ward tentacles  and  extending  those 
at  the  rear,  he  swept  us  toward  the 
dome.  At  their  full  extent,  he  drew 
the  hind  ones  in  beneath  him  and 
extended  the  leaders  a full  half  mile 
outwards  and  repeated  the  process. 
In  two  minutes  we  were  swaying 
hi^'h  above  the  dome. 

“What  now?”  I asked. 

He  uncoiled  a longer  and  thicker 
tentacle  from  somewhere  in  the  folds 
of  his  bulbous  belly  and  thrust  it  in- 
to the  surface  to  the  bubble. 

“He’s  charging  his  batteries!” 
Natascha  shouted  from  a long  way 
off  on  her  far  tentacle.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  that  was  exact- 


ly the  idea  of  the  process.  Rastus 
lived  on  energy.  (We  had  once  won- 
dered why  he  had  shown  no  interest 
in  living  on  us.)  And  the  bubble  was 
in  some  way  an  energy  contains 
formed  by  the  action  of  the  binary 
on  the  energy  gas  of  the  atmosphere. 
It  all  became  clear  to  me.  The  effect 
of  this  feeding  on  Rastus  was  quite 
significant.  He  rfeally  came  to  life. 
He  danced,  hopping  from  tentacle  to 
tentacle,  his  great  eye  sparkling  and 
glinting,  the  lid  sliding  up  and  down 
and  the  pupil  contracting  to  the  pin- 
point of  a cartwheel.  At  last,  ap- 
parantly  satisfied,  he  withdrew  the 
connector  tentacle  with  a loud  crack- 
le and,  as  the  dome  closed  over  the 
fracture,  small  balloons  of  energy 
dislodged  and  floated  downwind  to- 
ward our  encampment. 

We  had  found  the  origin  of  goon 
bombardment.  There  remained  only 
to  account  for  the  dawn  wind.  We 
had  not  long  to  wait. 

Attracted  probably  by  the  explo- 
sive crackling  of  the  disrupted  en- 
ergy surface,  other  giant  shapes  rose 
from  the  swamps  around  the  dome. 
They  plunged  their  tentades  Through 
its  surface;  its  area  shrank  still  fur- 
ther, and  the  charged  monsters  be- 
came animated.  Soon,  as  far  as  we 
could  see,  the  whole  planet  was  alive 
with  dancing  mountains  of  squid- 
like shapes,  and  the  wind  rose  howl- 
ing from  the  threshing  of  their  sup- 
ple, sinuous,  mile-long  members. 
Then,  one  by  one,  they  became  calm- 
er, and,  with  a contraction  of  ten- 
tacle, they  sank  beneath  the  surface 
of  their  respective  swamps.  Only 
Rastus  remained,  holding  us  aloft, 
making  sure  we  saw  and  under- 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  GALAXY 


99 


stood,  tiien  he,  too,  began  to  sink 
slowly  downward  toward  the  bub- 
bling blackness  of  his  bog. 

“Not  in  the  bog!”  the  general 
shouted.  “Don’t  let  him  drown  us!” 

“Of  course  not,”  Natascha 
snapiped,  indignant  at  his  lack  of  un- 
derstanding. “He  wouldn’t  hurt  a 
fly.” 

He  set  us  very  gently  on  the  bank, 
and  for  a moment  towered  above 
us,  his  great  eye  blinking  at  Natas- 
cha. 

“Isn’t  he  nice!”  she  said. 

The  general  was  laughing  rather 
in  the  same  cracked  key  that 
Waldron  favored.  He  danced  a clum- 
sy jib  in  his  heavy  boots. 

“The  bank!”  he  said.  “How  sweet 
the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  it  where 
the  wild  thyme  grows.” 

Natascha  mothered  him,  and  we 
coaxed  him  back  to  the  camp.  There 
were  nurses  with  medals  on  their 
white  spacesuits  in  his  ship,  and  they 
came  demurely  down  the  ladder  and 
surrounded  him. 

Back  in  the  H.Q.,  Karlsen  started 
up  the  electro^mag  accelerator. 

“Messages?”  he  asked  the  major 
who  seemed  to  have  slipped  on  the 
mantle  of  authority  before  anyone 
else  had  seen  it  fall. 

“No  messages,”  he  said.  “I  think 
we’ll  forget  we  ev.er  came  here.  All 
the  galaxy  needs  attention,  and  you 
can’t  be  everywhere.  I think  we’ll 
just  slip  away.” 

“Very  wise,”  I said. 

“I  saw  that  thing  from  your  look- 
out tower,”  he  confided. 

We  gave  him  a coffee  and  a hy- 
droponic melon. 


“You  lot  want  a posting  home?” 
He  asked.  We  had  always  talked 
about  postings  home.  We  had  grown 
so  used  to  supposing  that  that  was 
what  we  wanted,  we  had  never  real- 
ly thought  about  it.  To  have  the  op- 
portunity suddenly  rolled  off  the  cuff 
like  that  caught  me  quite  unprepared. 

“Home?”  I asked.  “Where’s 
home?” 

“Earth,  of  course,”  he  said. 

That  was  it,  of  course.  The  place 
we  always  referred  to  when  we  want- 
ed a good  simile. 

“Do  we?”  I asked  them.  They 
had  their  memories  too. 

“Commuting  to  space  H.Q.  on  a 
wet  Monday,”  Spandrel  groaned. 

“Presidents  and  generals  and 
bombs  and  political  broadcasts.” 

“People  everywhere,”  Karlsen  re- 
membered. 

“What  are  people?”  Ingles  asked. 

“What  about  Ingles?”  I asked  the 
major,  playing  for  time. 

“He  can  go  back  to  his  own  plan- 
et. He  might  get  on  to  Earth  if  he 
passes  the  vetting.” 

“Vet  Ingles?”  I asked. 

Natascha  came  down  the  ladder 
from  the  single  upper-floor  but  we 
had  built  for  her.  The  plain  round 
walls  of  our  beehive  with  its  junk 
and  clobber  never  seemed  dull  or 
sordid  when  Natascha  was  there. 

“Shall  we  go  home,  Natascha?”  I 
asked  her.  We  all  knew  it  was  her 
decision  really. 

“We  couldn’t  leave  Rastus,” 
Natascha  decided.  That  settled  it. 

I heard  later  they  made  the  ma- 
jor a general  first  class.  Experience 
does  a lot  for  a man.  But  we  never 
found  any  titanium.  END 


100 


IF 


IF  * Short  Story 


THE 

SPY 

GAME 


Watch  those  toys  your  children 
put  on  their  Christmas  list  — 
this  just  may  be  one  of  them! 


by  RACHEL  COSGROVE  PAVES 


Level  70  — Cubicle  AAd 
Eastern  Megapolis,  N.  A. 
September  27,  2329 


Super-Galactic  Toy  Company 
Level  90  — Cubicle  XNZp 
Western'  Coastal  Urban  Center,  N.  A. 

Gentlemen, 

It  is  a disgrace  that  any  toy  company  should  put  on  the 
market  such  a toy,  supposedly  for  children,  as  your  “Interstellar 
Secret  Agent  Kit.” 


In  your  3-D  family  entertainment  commercials,  which  you 
broadcast  (by  actual  count)  317  times  daily,  you  recommend  this  kit 
for  children  of  six  years  and  older.  Outrageous! 


101 


You  will  shortly  be  hearing  from  my  lawyers;  for,  thanks  to 
my  purchase  of  your  “Interstellar  Secret  Agent  Kit”  for  my  young 
son,  my  wife  has  suffered  a nervous  'breakdown,  and  our  entire  fam- 
ily is  severely  disrupted.  I intend  to  sue  you  for  ten  billion  credits 
for  medical  expenses  for  my  wife,  her  psychiatric  care,  loss  of  her 
companionship,  etc.y  etc.y  as  well  as  many  other  minor  claims  which 
my  lawyers  will  enumerate  at  length. 

In  hopes  that  you  will  IMMEDIATELY  withdraw  this 
alleged  toy  from  the  market,  I shall  give  you  a detailed  report  on  my 
family’s  unhappy  experiences  with  the  “Interstellar  Secret  Agent  Kit.” 

I purchased  it  at  Tricky  Jack’s  Super-Discount  Subcellar  (“We  buy  and 
sell  down  close  to  Hell”)  for  1,007  credits  (discount  price).  I wasn’t 
about  to  pay  your  list  price  of  4,998  credits,  which  is  out-and-out 
robbery  for  such  a piece  of  junk.  My  son  hadn’t  had  the  kit  more  than 
an  hour,  when  the  handle  came  off  the  genuine  imitation  Betelgeuse 
immy-skin  attache  case. 

The  instructions  for  use  of  the  kit  were  in  code,  which  defied 
me;  but  my  son  (age  7)  mastered  it  in  no  time.  He  said  it  was  an 
ancient  dead  language,  Igpay  Atinlay,  which  is  all  the  rage  at  school. 
Some  wise  apple  slipped  a tape  of  itiinto  the  hypno  learner,  and  they 
all  had  it  down  pat  before  the  teaching  machine  caught  the  error. 

The  first  thing  my  son  did  was  to  try  out  the  Scary  Scarab 
Scalper,  that  nasty  little  electronic  gadget  which  looks  like  a cross 
between  a beetle  and  a midget  lobster.  He  wound  it  up  and  turned  it 
loose,  when  his  mother  was  in  the  room.  Luckily  she  ducked  as  it 
hummed  over  her  head,  so  that  it  didn’t  actually  scalp  her  — it  just 
shaved  her  head. 

We  had  invited  my  boss  to  dinner,  and  she  didn’t  have  time 
to  send  out  for  a wig;  so  sonny  came  to  the  rescue  with  one  of  the 
disguises  from  that  dreadful  kit.  How  was  my  wife  to  know  that  it  was 
a Medusa  wig?  She’d  just  put  it  on,  when  the  door  speaker  announced 
that  our  ‘guests  had  arrived.  When  she  went  to  greet  my  boss,  he  took 
one  look  at  those  snaky  locks  and  was  turned  to  stone.  Now  I’m  out  of 
a job,  and  we’re  the  unhappy  possessors  of  a new,  grotesque  piece  of 
statuary.  (His  wife  wouldn’t  have  it  — said  she’d  warned  her  husband 
that  the  very  next  time  he  got  stoned  at  a party,  she’d  lock  him  out 
of  his  cubicle.) 


102 


IF 


Needless  to  say  my  loss  of  employment  was  a severe  blow 
to  my  wife’s  psyche,  as  we  owe  on  the  3-D  Home  Entertainment  Centeir, 
the  Aircar  and  the  Readi-Meal  Servo-unit.  The  Readi-meal  Corporation 
discontinued  service  when  we  lost  our  credit  rating,  and  my  wife  had 
to  learn  how  to  add  water  to  freeze-dried  foods,  a skill  her  mother 
never  taught  her. 

Naturally  we  scolded  sonny;  so  he  promised  to  be  more  care- 
ful with  the  kit  in  the  future  and  not  direct  its  diabolical  contents  at 
humans.  This  is  what  caused  all  the  trouble  with  our  Sirian  cat*.  You 
know  how  valuable  these  imported  felines  are;  not  only  because  of  their 
large  size  and  metallic  fur,  but  also  because  of  their  extremely  gentle 
nature.  Many  people  employ  them  as  baby-watchers.  Ours,  Baby  Umtid- 
dledy  Pinkums,  a female,  was  scheduled  to  be  bred  to  Feline  Champion 
Tomas  Tigre.  And  the  kittens  would  have  gone  for  3,000  credits  each. 
We  were  keeping  Pinkums  locked  in  her  cage,  which  turned  out  to  be 
a mistake;  for  the  lock  inspired  my  son  to  try  the  Electronic  Lxx:k- 
Picking  Tool  in  the  Secret  Agent  Kit.  I suppose  your  company  should 
be  congratulated  on  the  fact  that  this  part  of  the  toy  worked  as 
advertised  — too  well.  Pinkums  got  out  and  headed  for  the  cubicle  door. 
Just  then  a visitor  arrived.  It  was  my  teenage  daughter’s  nauseating 
boyfriend,  who  let  the  cat  out. 

As  Pinkums  was  streaking  through  the  crack  in  the  door,  my 
son  sprayed  her  with  the  Aphrodisiac  Atomizer  from  his  Secret  Agent 
Kit.  Before  we  got  the  cat  back  into  our  cubicle,  she’d  met  a common 
alley  cat  that  was  wandering  about  on  the  sidewalk.  Now  who  in  his 
right  mind,  may  I ask,  wants  a half-Sirian,  half-alleycat  kitten?  Not 
only  will  no  one  pay  3,000  credits  apiece  for  the  kittens,  but  also  we’ll 
probably  have  to  pay  p>eople  to  take  them  off  our  hands,  as  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Aliens  Act  prevents  our  drowning  them. 

This  was  very  unnerving  to  my  wife,  who  had  already  spent 
most  of  the  credits  for  the  as  yet  unconceived  Sirian  kittens.  This,  too, 
was  a conditioning  factor  in  her  breakdown. 

The  thing  which  really  caused  my  wife  to  flip,  though,  was 
what  happened  to  our  daughter’s  boyfriend.  Let’s  face  it,  our  daughter 
is  no  raving  beauty.  In  fact,  she’s  homely  as  a Vegan  milligual,  and 
homelier  than  that  you  don’t  get.  This  fellow  who  has  been  dating  her 
is  one  big  mess;  but  my  wife  argued  that  he  was  male  and  eligible,  and 


THE  SPY  GAME 


103 


we  mustn’t  lcx)k  gift  spouses  in  the  mouth,  even  if  he  did  paint  his 
face  blue  with  that  new  cosmetic:  and  play  the  latest  cosmic  discords  on 
his  molecular  harpskar. 

Well,  my  son  never  liked  Blueboy;  so  forgetting  his  promise 
about  humans,  he  took  the  miniature  blow  pipe,  which  is  disguised  as 
a cancer-free  cigarette,  and  got  the  boyfriend  right  between  the  eyes 
with  the  poison  dart  from  the  Secret  Agent  Kit.  Pretty  good  shooting 
for  a seven-year-old,  if  you  ask  me;  but  his  mother  didn’t  see  it  that 
way.  She  blamed  me  for  buying  the  Kit  for  our  son,  and  proceeded 
to  punish  me  by;  having  a nervous  breakdown.  (Otherwise  I’d  have 
been  able  to  report  to  you  that  at  least  ONE  good  thing  had  come 
out  of  my  purchase.)  For  a while,  I was  afraid  that  Blu^boy’s  parents 
would  sue  me;  but  when  I agreed  to  pay  the  exorbitant  fee  for  having 
his  body  blasted  off  into  the  Cemetery  Orbit,  they  were  satisfied. 

Frankly,  I think  they’re  glad  to  have  him  off  their  hands.  This  added 
expense  was  the  clincher  in  my  decision  to  sue  your  company. 

Yours  in  litigation, 

^ Sean  Quentin  O’Publick 

P.S.  As  a final  affront  to  my  already  battered  sensibilities,  I find  that 
I’m  not  very  skilled  at  preparing  meals  from  freeze-dried  packages,  either. 

S.  Q.  O’P. 


Just  Publishedl 

THE  CELTIC  BULL 

Critical  studies  of  James  Joyce’s  Ulysses,  edited  by  Judy-Lynn  Benjamin. 
Introduction  by  Thomas  F.  Staley,  distinguished  editor  of  the  James  Joyce 
Qm»ferly.  12  stimulating  essays  filled  with  fresh  Insights  into  this  20th- 
century  classic.  Special  hardcover  edition  of  300  numbered  copies,  $3.25 
each.  Paper,  $2.25  each.  Order  from  — 

Monograph  Series,  Department  of  English  (SMF) 
The  University  of  Tnlsa, 

Tulsa,  Oklahoma  74104 


104 


IF 


CONCLUSION 


IF  • Serial 


Edge  of  Night 

by  A.  BERTRAM  CHANDLER 


Illustrated  by  GAUGHAN 


If  wasn't  their  galaxy,  not 
even  their  space-time  — but 
they  had  to  win  it  for  Man! 


XV 

Sonya  asked  sharply,  “And  what 
else  have  you  to  report?” 

“I  ...  I have  been  listening.” 
“That’s  what  you’re  paid  for.  And 
what  have  you  picked  up?” 

“There’s  a general  alarm  out  to 
all  ships.  And  to  Faraway,  Ultimo 
and  Thule,  and  to  the  garrisons  on 
Tharn,  Mellise  and  Grollor.” 

“And  to  Stree?” 


“No.  Nothing  at  all  to  Stree.” 

“It  makes  sense,”  murmured  the 
woman.  “It  makes  sense.  Tham, 
with  its  humanoids  living  in  the 
equivalent  of  Earth’s  Middle  Ages. 
Grollor,  with  just  the  beginnings  of 
an  industrial  culture.  Mellise,  with 
its  intelligent  amphibians  and  no 
industries,  no  technology  at  all.  Our 
mutant  friends  must  have  found  the 
people  of  all  those  worlds  a push- 
over. 


105 


What  Has  Gone  Before — 

Out  of  nowhere  a strange  spaceship  appeared  in  the  solar  system.  Il 
was  no  ship  that  man  had  ever  built  . • . but  its  name  was  scratched  on  its 
hull  in  English  letters,  even  though  the  spelling  was  strange  and  unfamiliar,  and 
its  crew  was  human.  But  what  humansi  They  were  dressed  in  rags.  Their  bodies 
bore  the  marks  of  privation  and  torture.  And  — they  were,  every  last  one  of 
them,  dead. 

Analysis  revealed  that  the  ship  was  not  merely  from  another  star,  but 
from  another  universe  entirely,  thrust  into  our  own  by  some  catastrophic  distor- 
tion of  its  Mannschen  Drive  field.  But  if  one  such  could  come  by  accident,  others 
might  follow  by  design  — and  the  creatures  that  had  built  the  ship  and  so 
maltreated  its  humans  would  not  be  welcome  guests.  So  a human  crew  — 
Grimes,  his  wife  Sonya,  a picked  crew  of  volunteers  — manned  the  alien  craft 
and  in  it  thrust  themselves  through  the  dimensional  wall  into  the  other  universe 
. . . to  find  their  enemy  and  destroy  himl 


“But  Stree  ,,,  We  don’t  know 
just  what  powers  — psychic?  psionic? 
— those  philosophical  lizards  can 
muster,  and  we’re  on  friendly  terms 
with  them.  So  — ” 

“So  we  might  get  help  there,”  said 
Grimes.  “It’s  worth  considering. 
Meanwhile,  Mr.  Mayhew,  has  there 
been  any  communication  with  the 
anti-matter  worlds  to  the  Galactic 
West?” 

“No,  sir.” 

Grimes  smiled  — but  it  was  a 
cold  smile.  ‘Then  this  is,  without 
doubt,  a matter  for  the  Confederacy. 
The  legalities  of  it  all  are  rather  fasci- 
nating.” 

“The  illegalities.  Skipper,”  said 
Williams.  “But  I don’t  mind  being  a 
pirate  in  a good  cause.” 

“You  don’t  mind  being  a pirate. 
Period,”  said  Sonya. 


“Too  bloody  right  I don’t.  It 
makes  a change.” 

“Shall  we  regard  ourselves  as 
liberators?”  asked  Grimes  — but  it 
was  more  an  order  than  a question. 
“Meanwhile,  Commander  Williams, 
I suggest  that  we  set  course  for 
Stree.  And  you,  Mr.  Mayhew,  main- 
tain your  listening  watch.  Let  me 
know  at  once  if  there  are  any  other 
vessels  in  our  vicinity  — even  though 
they  haven’t  Mass  Proximity  Indi- 
cators they  can  still  pick  up  our 
temporal  precession  field  and  syn- 
chronize.” 

“And  what  are  your  intentions 
when  you  get  to  Stree,  sir?”  asked 
the  Major. 

“As  I told  the  Admiral,  I play  by 
ear.”  He  unstrapped  himself  from 
his  chair  and,  closely  followed  by 
Sonya,  led  the  way  to  the  control 


106 


IF 


room.  He  secured  himself  in  his  seat 
and  watched  Williams  as  the  Com- 
mander went  through  the  familiar 
routine  of  setting  course  — Manns- 
ohenn  Drive  off,  directional  gyros- 
copes brought  into  play  to  swing  the 
ship -to  her  new  heading,  the  target 
star  steadied  in  the  cartwheel  sight, 
the  brief  burst  of  power  from  the 
lieaction  drive.  Mannschenn  Drive 
eut  in  again.  The  routine  was  fam- 
iliar, and  the  surroundings  in  which 
it  was  carried  out  were  familiar,  but 
he  still  found  it  hard  to  adjust  to  the 
near  nudity  of  himself  and  his  of- 
ficers. But  Williams,  with  only  three 
bands  of  indigo  dye  on  each  thick, 
hairy  wrist  to  mark  his  rank,  was 
doing  the  job  as  efficiently  as  he 
would  have  done  had  those  bands 
been  gold  braid  on  black  cloth. 

“On  course.  Skipper,”  he  an- 
nounced. 

“Thank  you.  Commander  Wil- 
liams. All  off-duty  personnel  may 
stand  down.  Maintain  normal  deep 
space  watches.”  Accompanied  by  his 
wife,  he  returned  to  his  quarters. 

It  was,  at  first  and  in  some  respects, 
just  another  voyage. 

In  the  Mannschenn  Drive  Room 
the  complexity  of  spinning  gyros- 
copes precessed,  tumbled,  quivered 
on  the  very  edge  of  invisibility,  pull- 
ing the  ship  and  all  her  people  with 
them  down  the  dark  dimensions, 
through  the  warped  continuum, 
down  and  along  the  empty  immensi- 
ties of  the  rim  of  space. 

But,  reported  Mayhew,  they  were 
not  alone.  There  were  other  ships, 
fortunately  distant,  too  far  away  for 
Freedom* s wake  through  Space-Time 


to  register  on  their  instruments. 

It  was  more  than  just  another  voy- 
age. Hiere  was  the  hate  and  the  fear 
with  which  they  were  surrounded, 
said  Mayhew.  He,  of  course,  was 
listening  only  — the  other  operators 
were  sending.  There  were  warships 
in  orbit  about  Lorn,  Faraway,  Ulti- 
mo and  Thule,  there  were  squadrons 
hastening  to  take  up  .positions  off 
Tham,  Mellise,  Grollor  and  Stree. 
And  the  orders  to  single  vessels  and 
to  fleets  were  brutally  simple:  Des~ 
troy  on  sight, 

“What  else  did  you  expect?”  said 
Sonya,  when  she  was  told. 

“I  thought,”  said  Grimes,  “that 
they  might  try  to  capture  us.” 

“Why  should  they?  As  far  as  they 
know  we’re  just  a bunch  of  escaped 
slaves  who’ve  already  tried  their 
hand  at  piracy.  In  any  case,  I should 
hate  to  be  captured  by  those  . . . 
things.” 

“Xenophobia  from  yoUy  of  all  peo- 
ple?” 

“No.  Not  xenophobia.  Real  aliens 
one  can  make  allowances  for.  But 
these  aren’t  real  aliens.  They’re  a 
familiar  but  dangerous  pest,  a feared 
and  hated  pest  that’s  suddenly  started 
fighting  us  with  our  own  weapons. 
We  have  never  had  any  cause  to 
love  them  — human  beings  have 
gotten,  at  times,  quite  sentimental 
over  mice,  but  never  rats  — and 
they’ve  never  had  any  cause  to  love 
us.  A strong,  mutual  antipathy  . . 
Absently  she  rubbed  the  fading  scar 
between  her  breasts  with  her  strong 
fingers. 

“What  do  you  make  of  this 
squadron  despatched  to  Stree?” 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


107 


“A  precautionary  measure.  They 
think  that  we  might  be  making  for 
there,  and  that  they  might  be  able  to 
intercept  us  when  we  emerge  into 
normal  spacetime.  But  according  to 
Mayhew  there  have  been  no  psionic 
messages  to  planetary  authorities,  as 
there  have  been  to  the  military 
governments  on'  Tharn,  Mellise  and 
Grollor.”  She  said,  a note  of  query 
in  her  voice,  “We  shall  make  it  be- 
fore they  do?” 

“I  think  so.  I hope  so.  Our 
Mannschenn  Drive  unit  is  running 
flat  out.  It’s  pushed  to  the  safety 
limits.  And  you  know  what  will  hap- 
pen if  the  governor  packs  up.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  she  told  him.  “No- 
body knows.  I do  know  most  of  the 
spacemen’s  fairy  stories  about  what 
might  happen.” 

“Once  you  start  playing  around 
with  Time,  anything  might  happen,” 
he  said.  “The  most  important  thing 
is  to  be  able  to  take  advantage  of 
what  happens.” 

She  grinned.  “I  think  I can  guess 
what’s  flitting  through  your  apology 
for  a mind.” 

“Just  an  idea,”  he  said,  “Just  an 
idea.  But  I’d  like  to  have  a talk 
with  those  saurian  philosophers  be- 
fore I try  to  do  anything  about  it.” 

“If  we  get  there  before  that  squad- 
ron,” she ‘said. 

“If  we  don’t,  we  may  try  out  the 
idea  before  we’re  ready  to.  But  I 
think  we’re  still  leading  the  field.” 

“What’s  that?”  she  demanded. 

That  was  not  a noise.  That  was 
something  that  is  even  more  disturb- 
ing in  any  pK>wered  ship  traversing 
any  medium  — a sudden  cessation 
of  noise.The  buzzer  that  broke  the 


tense  silence  was  no  proper  substi- 
tute for  the  thin,  high  keening  of  the 
Mannschenn  Drive. 

It  was  the  officer  of  the  watch, 
calling  from  Control.  “Commodore, 
sir,  O.O.W.  here.  Reporting  break- 
down of  interstellar  drive.” 

Grimes  did  not  need  to  be  told. 
He  had  experienced  the  uncanny 
sensation  of  temporal  disorientatioif 
when  the  precessing  gyroscopes  slow- 
ed, ceased  to  precess.  He  said, 
“Don’t  bother  the  engineers  — 
every  second  spent  answering  the 
telephone  means  delay  in  effecting 
repairs.  I’ll  be  right  up.” 

“Looks  as  though  our  friends 
might  beat  us  to  Siree  after  all,” 
remarked  Sonya  quietly. 

“That’s  what  I’m  afraid  of,”  said 
Grimes. 

XVI 

The  breakdown  of  Freedom's 
Mannschenn  Drive  unit  was  a 
piece  of  bad  luck  — but.  Grimes 
admitted,  the  luck  could  have  been 
much  worse. 

The  ship  h^d  made  her  re-entry 
into  the  normal  continuum  many 
light-years  from  any  focal  point  and 
well  beyond  the  maximum  range  of 
the  radar  installations  of  the  enemy 
war  vessels.  She  had  space  — or, 
at  any  rate,  a vast  globe  of  emptiness 
— all  to  herself. 

The  odds  had  been  in  favor  of  her 
finding  herself  in  just  this  situation 
— but,  as  an  amateur  of  naval  his  - 
tory, Grimes  knew  full  well  what  an 
overly  large  part  is  played  by  sheer, 
blind  mischance  in  warfare.  Far  too 
many  times  a hunted  ship  has  blun- 


108 


IF 


deted  into  the  midst  of  her  pursuers 
when  all  on  board  have  considered 
themselves  justified  in  relaxing  their 
vigilance  — not  that  vigilance  is  of 
great  avail  against  overwhelming  fire- 
power. And  firepower,  whether  it 
be  the  muzzle-loading  cannon  of  the 
days  of  sail  or  the  guided  missiles 
and  laser  beams  of  today,  is  what 
makes  the  final  decision. 

But,  so  far,  there  was  no  need  to 
worry  about  firepower.  A good  look- 
out, by  all  available  means,  was  of 
primary  importance.  And  so,  while 
Freedom  fell  — but  slowly,  slowly, 
by  the  accepted  standards  of  inter- 
stellar navigation  — toward  the  dis- 
tant Stree  sun,  the  long  fingers  of 
her  radar  pulses  probed  the  empti- 
ness about  her  and,  in  the  cubby 
hole  that  he  shared  with  the  naked 
canine  brain  that  was  a poor  and 
untrained  substitute  for  his  beloved 
Lassie,  Mayhew  listened,  alert  for 
the  faintest  whisper  of  thought  that 
would  offer  some  clue  as  to  the  en- 
emy’s whereabouts  and  intentions. 

After  a while,  having  received  no 
reports  from  the  engineers.  Grimes 
went  along  to  the  Mannschenn  Drive 
Room.  He  knew  that  the  engineroom 
staff  was  working  hard,  even  des- 
perately, and  that  the  buzz  of  a tele- 
phone in  such  circumstances  can  be 
an  almost  unbearable  irritation.  Even 
so,  as  captain  of  the  ship  he  felt  that 
he  was  entitled  to  know  what  was 
going  on. 

He  stood  for  a while  in  the  door- 
way of  the  compartment,  watching. 
He  could  see  what  had  happened  — 
a seized  bearing  of  the  main  rotor. 
That  huge  flywheel,  in  the  gravita- 
tional field  of  an  Earth-type  planet, 


would  weigh  at  least  five  tons.  Even 
with  Freedom  falling  free,  it  still 
possessed  considerable  mass.  Its 
spindle  had  to  be  eased  clear  of  the 
damaged  bearing  — and  great  care 
had  to  be  taken  that  it  did  not  come 
into  contact  with  and  damage  the 
smaller  gyroscopes  surrounding  it. 

Finally  Bronson,  the  Chief  En- 
gineer, pausing  to  wipe  his  sweat- 
ing face,  noticed  the  Commodore 
and  delivered  himself  of  a complaint. 

“We  should  have  installed  one  of 
our  own  units,  sir.” 

“Why,  Conmiander?” 

“Because  ours  have  a foolproof 
system  of  automatic  lubrication, 
that’s  why.  Because  the  idiots  who 
built  this  ship  don’t  seem  to  have 
heard  of  such  a thing.  They  must 
rely  on  their  sense  of  smell  to  warn 
them  as  soon  as  anything  even  starts 
to  run  hot.” 

“And  that’s  possible,”  murmured 
Grimes,  thinking  that  the  mutants 
had  not  been  intelligent  long  enough 
for  their  primitive  senses  to  become 
dulled.  Then  he  asked,  “How  long 
will  you  be?” 

“At  least  two  hours.  At  least. 
That’s  the  best  I can  promise  you.” 
“Very  good.”  He  paused.  “And 
how  long  will  it  take  you  to  modify 
the  lubrication  system,  to  bring  it  up 
to  our  standards?” 

“I  haven’t  even  thought  about  that. 
Commodore.  But  it’d  take  days.” 
“We  can’t  afford  the  time,”  said 
Grimes,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the 
engineer.  “Just  carry  on  with  the 
repairs  to  the  main  rotor  and  let  me 
know  as  soon  as  the  unit  is  opera- 
tional. I shall  be  in  Control.”  As  he 
turned  to  go  he  added,  half  serious- 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


109 


ly,  “And  it  might  be  an  idea  to  see 
that  your  watohkeepers  possess  a 
keen  sense  of  smell.” 

Back  in  the  control  room  he  felt 
more  at  home,  even  though  this 
was  lihe  nerve  center  of  a crippled 
ship.  Officers  sat  at  their  posts,  and 
there  was  the  reassuring  glow  from 
the  screens  of  navigational  instru- 
ments — the  chart  tank  and  the 
radarscopes.  Space,  for  billions  of 
miles  on  every  hand,  was  still  emp- 
ty, which  was  just  as  well. 

He  went  to  stand  by  Sonya  and 
Williams,  told  them  what  he  had 
learned. 

“So  they  beat  us  to  Stree,”  com- 
mented the  Executive  Officer  glum- 

ly- 

“I’m  afraid  that  they  will,  Com- 
mander.” 

“And  then  what  do  we  do?” 

“I  wish  I knew  just  what  the  situ- 
ation is  on  Stree,”  murmured 
Grimes.  ''They  don’t  seem  to  have 
taken  over,  as  they  have  on  the  other 
Rim  Worlds.  Should  we  be  justified 
in  breaking  through  to  make  a land- 
ing?” 

‘Trying  to  break  through,  you 
mean,”  corrected  Sonya. 

“All  right.  Trying  to  break 
through.  Will  it  be  a justified  risk?” 
“Yes,”  she  said  firmly.  “As  far 
as  I can  gather  from  Mayhew,  our 
rodent  friends  are  scared  of  Stree 
and  its  people.  They’ve  made  con- 
tact, of  course,  but  that’s  all.  The 
general  feeling  seems  to  be  one  of 
you  leave  us  alone  and  we’ll  leave 
you  alone.” 

“I  knew  the  Streen,”  said  Grimes. 
“Don’t  forget  that  it  was  I that  made 


the  first  landing  on  their  planet, 
when  I opened  up  the  Eastern  Cir- 
cuit to  trade.  They’re  uncanny 
brutes  — but,  after  all,  mammals 
and  saurians  have  little  in  common, 
psychologically  speaking.” 

“Spare  us  the  lecture,  John.  Fur- 
thermore, while  you  were  nosing 
around  in  the  engineroom,  Mayhew 
rang  control.  He’s  established  con- 
tact with  the  squadron  bound  for 
Stree.” 

“What!  Is  the  man  mad?  Send  for 
him  at  once.” 

“Quietly,  John,  quietly.  Our  Mr. 
Mayhew  may  be  a little  round  the 
bend,  like  all  his  breed,  but  he’s  no 
fool.  When  I said  that  he  had  made 
contact  with  the  enemy  I didn’t 
mean  that  he  had  been  nattering  with 
the  officer  commanding  the  squad- 
ron. He’s  made  contact  with  the 
underground.” 

“Don’t  talk  in  riddles!” 

“Just  a delaying  action,  my  dear, 
to  give  you  time  to  simmer  down. 

I didn’t  want  you  to  order  that 
Mayhew  be  thrown  out  of  the  airlock 
without  a spacesuit.  The  under- 
ground, as  I have  referred  to  it,  is 
made  up  of  the  human  brains  that 
our  furry  friends  use  as  psionic  amp- 
lifiers.” 

“But  it’s  still  criminal  folly.  They 
will  employ  telepaths  as  psionic  ra- 
dio officers,  just  as  we  do.  And 
those  telepaths  will  read  the  thoughts 
of  their  amplifiers,  just  as  Mayhew 
reads  the  thoughts  of  his  dog’s  brain 
in  aspic.” 

“But  will  they?  Can  they?  Don’t 
forget  that  our  telepaths  employ  as 
amplifiers  the  brains  of  creatures 
considerably  less  intelligent  than 


110 


IF 


Man.  Whoever  heard  of  a dog  with 
any  sort  of  mental  screen?  They 
will  be  using  the  brains  of  humans 
who  have  beea  unlucky  enough  to 
be  bom  with  telepathic  ability.  And 
any  human  telepath,  any  trained  hu- 
man telepath,  is  able  to  set  up  a 
screen.” 

C4T)ut  why  should  They  use  hu- 
man  brains?  The  risk  of 
sabotage  of  vital  communications  — ” 
“What  other  brains  are  available 
for  their  use?  As  far  as  They  are 
concerned,  both  dogs  and  cats  are 
out,  repeat  out.” 

“Why?” 

“Far  too  much  mutual  antipathy.” 
“Wouldn’t  that  also  apply  in  the 
case  of  themselves  and  human  be- 
ings?” 

“No.  I doubt  if  they  really  hate  us. 
After  all,  we  have  provided  their 
ancestors  with  food,  shelter  and 
transportation  for  many  centuries. 
The  rats  would  have  survived  if  they 
hadn’t  had  the  human  race  to  bludge 
upon,  but  they  wouldn’t  have  flour- 
ished, as  they  have,  traps  and  poisons 
notwithstanding.  Oh,  all  right.  With 
the  exception  of  the  occasional  small 
boy  with  'his  albino  pets,  every  hu- 
man being  has  this  hatred  of  rats. 
But  hate  isn’t  the  only  mainspring 
of  human  behavior.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“Look  at  it  this  way.  Suppose 
you’re  a telepath,  born  on  one  of  the 
Rim  Worlds  in  this  continuum.  By 
the  time  that  your  talent  has  been 
noted,  by  the  time  that  you’re  . . . 
conscripted,  you  will  have  come  to 
love  your  parents  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  your  family.  You  will  have 


made  friends  outside  the  family  cir- 
cle. Without  being  overly  precocious 
you  may  even  have  acquired  a lover.” 

“I  think  I see.  Play  ball,  or  else.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then  why  should  the  poor  bas- 
tards risk  the  ‘or  else’  now?” 

“Because  Mayhew’s  peddled  them 
a line  of  goods.  Very  subtly,  yeity 
carefully.  Just  induced  dreams  at 
first,  just  dreams  of  life  as  it  is 
on  the  Rim  Worlds  in  our  Universe 
— but  a somewhat  glamorized  ver- 
sion.” 

“I  can  imagine  it.  Mayhew’s  a 
very  patriotic  Rim  Worlder.” 

“First  the  dreams,  and  then  the 
hints.  The  whisper  that  all  that  they 
have  dreamed  is  true,  that  all  of  it 
could  become  the  way  of  life  of 
their  own  people.  The  story  of  what 
actually  happened  to  Freedom  and 
to  the  escaped  slaves.  The  message 
that  we  have  come  to  help  them  — 
and  the  request  for  help  for  our- 
selves.” 

“But  I don’t  understand  how  he 
could  have  done  all  this  in  so  short  a 
time.” 

“How  long  does  a dream  take?  It 
is  said  that  a man  can  dream  of  a 
lifetime’s  happenings  in  a few  sec- 
onds.” 

Already  Grime’s  active  mind  was 
toying  with  ideas,  with  ruses  and 
stratagems.  Deceit,  he  knew,  has  al- 
ways been  a legitimate  technique  of 
warfare.  Not  that  legalities  counted 
for  overmuch  in  this  here-and-now. 
Or  did  they?  If  the  Federation  got 
dragged  into  the  mess,  he  and  his 
people  might  well  find  themselves 
standing  trial  for  piracy.  It  was  un- 
likely — but,  bearing  in  mind  the 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


m 


Federation’s  pampering  of  various 
unpleasant  nonhuman  races  on  his, 
Grimes’s,  time  track,  possible. 

He  grinned.  The  legal  aspects  of 
it  all  were  far  too  complicated  — 
and,  at  the  moment,  far  too  unim- 
portant. 

He  said,  “Send  for  Mr.  Mayhew 
immediately.” 

XVII 

Grimes  went  into  conference  with 
Mayhew  and  certain  others  of 
his  officers.  There  was  Sonya,  of 
course,  and  there  was  Williams,  and 
there  was  Dangerford,  the  Chief  Re- 
action Drive  Engineer.  Also  present 
was  one  Ella  Kubinsky,  who  held 
the  rank  of  Lieutenant  in  the  Rim 
Worlds  Volunteer  Naval  Reserve. 
She  was  not  a spacewoman.  She 
was  a specialist  officer,  and  in  civilian 
life  she  was  an  instructor  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Lorn,  in  the  Department 
of  Linguistics.  Looking  at  her. 
Grimes  could  not  help  thinking  that 
she  was  ideally  suited  for  the  part 
that  she  would  be  called  upon  to 
play.  Her  straggling  hair  was  so  pale 
as  to  be  almost  white,  her  chin  and 
forehead  receded  sharply  from  her 
pointed  nose.  Her  arms  and  legs 
were  scrawny,  her  breasts  meager. 
She  had  b^en  nicknamed  The  White 
Rat. 

To  begin  with.  Grimes  and  Sonya 
questioned  Mayhew  closely,  with 
Sonya  playing  the  major  part  in  the 
interrogation.  They  wished  that  they 
could  have  subjected  the  bodiless  hu- 
man telepaths  aboard  the  enemy 
ships  to  a similar  interrogation  — 
but  that,  of  course,  was  impossible. 


However,  Mayhew  said  that  they 
were  sincere  in  their  desire  to  help. 
And  sincerity  is  almost  impossible 
to  simulate  when  you  have  thrown 
your  mind  open  to  another  skilled, 
trained  intelligence. 

Then  other,  less  recondite  matters 
were  discussed  with  Williams  and 
Dangerford.  These  concerned  the 
efficacy  of  various  detergents  and 
paint  removers  and,  also,  the  burn- 
ing off  from  the  hull  plating  of  cer- 
tain lettering  and  its  replacement 
with  other  letters,  these  characters 
to  be  fabricated  in  the  Engineers’ 
workshop  by  Dangerford  and  his 
juniors  who,  of  course,  were  not  in- 
volved in  the  repair  work  to  the 
Mannschenn  Drive  unit.  Mayhew 
was  called  upon  to  supply  the  speci- 
fications for  these  characters. 

And  then  tapes  were  played  to 
Ella  Kubinsky.  These  were  records  of 
signals  received  from  the  mutants’ 
ships.  She  repeated  the  words,  imi- 
tating them  in  a thin,  high,  squeak- 
ing voice  that  exactly  duplicated 
the  original  messages. 

Even  Sonya  expressed  her  satis- 
faction. 

While  this  was  being  done,  May- 
hew retired  to  his  cabin  for  further 
consultations  with  his  fellow  tele- 
paths. There  was  so  much  that  they 
could  tell  him.  There  was  so  much 
that  they  knew,  as  all  psionic  signals 
had  to  pass  through  their  brains. 
When  he  came  back  to  Grimes’s 
cabin  he  was  able  to  tell  the  Com- 
modore what  name  to  substitute  for 
both  Freedom  and  Distriyir  when 
these  sets  of  characters  had  been 
removed  from  the  forward  shell  plat- 
ing. 


112 


IF 


While  Williams  and  his  working 
party  were  engaged  outside 
the  ship,  and  Dangerford  and  his 
juniors  were  fabricating  the  new 
characters,  Grimes,  Sonya  and  Ella 
Kubinsky  accompanied  Mayhew  to 
his  quarters.  It  was  more  convenient 
there  to  rehearse  and  to  be  filled  in 
with  the  necessary  background  de- 
tails. It  seemed,  at  times,  that  the 
disembodied  presences  of  the  human 
psionic  amplifiers  were  crowded 
with  them  into  the  cramped  com- 
partment, bringing  with  them  the 
mental  stink  of  their  hates  and  fears. 

It  has  been  said  that  to  know  is 
to  love.  But  very  often  to  know  is 
to  hate.  Those  brains,  bodiless,  naked 
in  their  baths  of  nutrient  solution, 
must  know  their  unhuman  masters 
as  no  intelligence  clothed  in  flesh 
and  blood  could  ever  know  them. 
And  Grimes  found  himself  pitying 
Mayhew’s  own  psionic  amplifier,  the 
brain  of  the  dog  that  possessed  nei- 
ther the  knowledge  nor  the  experi- 
ence to  hate  the  beings  who  had  de- 
prived it  of  a normal  existence. 

Bronson  had  finished  the  repairs 
to  the  Mannschenn  Drive  before 
Williams  and  Dangerford  were  ready. 
He  was  glad  enough  to  be  able  to 
snatch  a brief  rest  before  his  ma- 
chinery was  restarted. 

And  then  the  new  name  was  in 
place. 

Grimes,  Sonya  and  Williams  went 
back  to  Control  where,  using  the 
public  address  system,  the  Commo- 
dore told  his  ship’s  company  of  the 
plan  for  the  landing  on  Stree.  He 
sensed  a feeling  of  disappointment. 
Carter,  the  Gunnery  Officer,  and  the 
Major  and  his  Marines  had  been 


looking  forward  to  a fight.  Well, 
they  could  be  ready  for  one  — but 
if  ail  went  as  plann^  they  would  not 
be  getting  it. 

Cirsir  — Corsair  — as  she  had 
been  renamed  set  course  for  the 
Stree  sun.  The  real  Corsair  had  been 
unable  to  join  the  squadron,  being 
grounded  for  repairs  on  Tham.  The 
real  Corsair^ s psionic  amplifier  knew, 
by  this  time,  what  was  happening, 
but  would  not  pass  on  the  informa- 
tion to  the  unhuman  psionic  radio 
officer  who  was  his  lord  and  mas- 
ter. And  the  psionic  amplifiers 
aboard  the  other  ships  would  let  it 
be  known  that  Corsair  was  hastening 
to  join  the  blockade  of  Stree. 

It  was  all  so  simple.  The  opera- 
tion, said  Sonya,  was  an  Intelligence 
Officer’s  dream  of  Heaven  — to 
know  everything  that  the  enemy  was 
thinking,  and  to  have  full  control 
over  the  enemy’s  communications. 
The  pseudo-Cori'a/V  was  in  psionic 
touch  with  the  squadron  that  she 
was  hurrying  to  overtake.  Messages 
were  passing  back  and  forth,  mes- 
sages that,  from  the  single  ship,  were 
utterly  bogus  and  that,  from  the 
fleet,  were  full  of  important  infor- 
mation. Soon  Grimes  knew  every  de-. 
tail  of  tonnage,  manning  and  ar- 
mament — and  knew  that  he  must 
avoid  any  sort  of  showdown.  There 
was  enough  massed  firepower  to 
blow  his  ship  into  fragments  in  a 
microsecond,  whereupon  the  laser 
beams,  in  another  microsecond, 
would  convert  those  fragments  into 
puffs  of  incandescent  vapor. 

As  Corsair  closed  the  range  the 
squadron  ahead  was  detected  on  her 
instruments.  The  slight  flickering  of 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


113 


needles  on  the  faces  of  gauges,  the 
shallow  undulation  of  the  glowing 
traces  in  monitor  tubes,  showed  that 
in  the  vicinity  were  other  vessels  us- 
ing the  interstellar  drive.  They  were 
not  yet  visible,  of  course,  and  would 
not  be  unless  temporal  precession 
rates  were  synchronized.  And  syn- 
chronization was  what  Grimes  did 
not  want.  As  far  as  he  knew,  his 
Corsair  was  typical  of  her  class  (as 
long  as  her  damaged  side  was  hidden 
from  view).  But  the  humans  (if 
bodiless  brains  could  still  be  called 
human)  aboard  the  ships  of  the 
squadron  were  not  spacemen.  They 
knew  nothing  of  subtle  differences 
that  can  be  picked  up  immediately 
by  the  trained  eye. 

Grimes  wished  to  be  able  to  sweep 
past  the  enemy,  invisible,  no  more 
than  interference  on  their  screens. 


and  to  make  his  landing  on  Stree 
before  the  blockading  squadron  fell 
into  its  orbits.  That  was  his  wish  and 
hope;  but  Bronson,  since  the  break- 
down, did  not  trust  his  Mannsohenn 
Drive  unit  and  dared  not  drive  the 
machine  at  its  full  capacity.  He 
pointed  out  that,  even  so,  they  were 
gaining  slowly  upon  the  enemy,  and 
that  was  evidence  that  the  engineers 
of  these  vessels  trusted  their  inter- 
stellar drives  even  less  than  he  did. 
The  Commodore  was  obliged  to  ad- 
mit that  his  engineer  was  probably 
right  in  this  assumption. 

So  it  was  that  when  Corsair,  at 
last,  cut  her  Drive  and  re-enter- 
ed normal  Space-Time  the  blockad- 
ing cruisers  were  already  taking  up 
their  stations.  Radar  and  radio  came 
into  play.  From  the  transceiver  in 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


115 


Corsair*s  control  room  squeaked  an 
irritable  voice  — ''Heenteer  tee 
Ceerseer,  Heenteer  tee  Ceerseer, 
teeke  eep  steeteen  ees  eerdeered.” 

Ella  Kubinski,  who  had  been 
thoroughly  rehearsed  for  just  this 
situation,  squeaked  the  acknowledg- 
ment. 

Grimes  stared  out  of  the  view- 
ports at  the  golden  globe  that  was 
Stree,  at  the  silver,  flitting  sparks 
that  were  the  other  ships.  He  switch- 
ed his  regard  to  Williams,  saw  that 
the  Executive  Officer  was  going 
through  the  motions  of  maneuvering 
the  ship  into  a closed  orbit  — and, 
as  he  had  been  ordered,  making  a 
deliberate  botch  of  it. 

*'Heenteer  tee  Ceerseer.  Whee  ees 
neet  yeer  veeseen  screen  een?” 

Ella  Kubinski  squeaked  that  it  was 
supposed  to  have  been  overhauled 
on  Tharn,  and  added  some  unkind 
remarks  about  the  poor  quality  of 
humanoid  labor.  Somebody  — 
Grimes  was  sorry  that  he  did  not  see 
who  it  was  — whispered  unkindly 
that  if  Ella  did  switch  on  the  screen 
it  would  make  no  difference,  any- 
how. The  ugly  girl  flushed  angrily, 
but  continued  to  play  her  part  calm- 
ly enough. 

Under  Williams’  skilled  handling 
the  ship  was  falling  closer  and  closer 
to  the  great,  expanding  globe  of  the 
planet.  But  .this  did  not  go  unnoticed 
for  long.  Again  there  was  the  en- 
raged squeaking,  but  in  a new  voice. 
“Thees  ees  thee  Eedmeereel.  Wheet 
thee  heel  eere  yee  plee-eeng  et, 
CeerseerT'^ 

Ella  told  her  story  of  an  alleged 
overhaul  of  reaction  drive  controls 
and  made  further  complaints  about 


the  quality  of  the  dockyard  labor  on 
Tharn. 

“Wheere  ees  yee  Ceepteen?  Teel 
heem  tee  speek  tee  mee.” 

Ella  said  that  the  Captain  was 
busy  at  the  controls.  The  Admiral 
said  that  the  ship  would  do  better 
by  herself  than  with  such  an  illegiti- 
mate son  of  a human  female,  han- 
dling her.  Williams,  hearing  this, 
grinned  and  muttered,  “I  did  not 
ride  to  my  parents*  wedding  on  a 
bicycle.” 

“Wheere  ees  thee  Ceepteen?” 

And  there  was  a fresh  voice. 
*‘"‘Heeveec  tee  Heenteer.  Wheere  deed 
shee  geet  theet  deemeege?” 

“All  right,”  said  Grimes.  “Action 
stations.  And  get  her  downstairs, 
Williams,  as  fast  as  Christ  will  let 
you!” 

Gyroscopes  whined  viciously  and 
rockets  screamed,  driving  the  ship 
down  to  the  exosphere  in  a power- 
ed dive.  From  the  vents  in  her  sides 
puffed  the  cloud  of  metallic  particles 
that  would  protect  her  from  lasers  — 
until  the  particles  themselves  were 
destroyed  by  the  stabbing  beams. 
And  her  launching  racks  spewed  a 
covey  of  missiles,  each  programmed 
for  random  action,  and  to  seek  out 
and  destroy  any  target  except  their 
parent  ship.  Not  that  they  stood 
much  chance  of  so  doing  — but 
they  would,  at  least,  keep  the  enemy 
laser  gunners  busy. 

Corsair  hit  the  first,  tenuous  fring- 
es of  the  Streen  atmosphere,  and 
her  internal  temperature  rose  fast. 
Too  fast. 

Somehow,  using  rockets  only,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  her  aerodynamic 


116 


IF 


qualities,  such  as  they  were,  Wil- 
liams turned  her,  stood  her  on  her 
tail.  Briefly  she  was  a sitting  duck  — 
but  Carter’s  beams  were  stabbing 
and  slicing,  swatting  down  the  swarm 
of  missiles  that  had  been  loosed  at 
her. 

She  was  falling  then,  stern  first, 
falling  fast  but  under  control,  bal- 
anced on  her  tail  of  incandescence, 
the  rocket  thrust  that  was  slowing 
her  — that  would  bring  her  to  a 
standstill  (Grimes  hoped)  when  her 
vaned  landing  gear  was  only  scant 
feet  above  the  surface  of  the  planet. 

She  was  dropping  through  the 
overcast  — blue-silver  at  first,  then 
gradually  changing  hue  to  gold.  In 
the  overcast  there  was  no  pursuit, 
although  when  she  entered  regions 
of  denser  atmosphere  she  was  es- 
corted, surrounded  by  great,  shadowy 
shapes  that  wheeled  about  them  on 
wide  wings  and  glared  redly  at  them 
through  the  control  room  ports. 

Grimes  recognized  them.  After  all, 
in  his  own  Continuum  he  had  been 
the  first  human  to  set  foot  on  Stree. 
They  were  the  huge  flying  lizards, 
not  unlike  the  pterosauria  of  Earth’s 
past  — but  in  Grimes’s  Space-Time 
they  had  never  behaved  like  this. 
They  had  avoided  spaceships  and 
aircraft. 

These  showed  no  inclination 
towards  doing  so.  Just  one  of  the 
huge  brutes  colliding  with  the  ship, 
tipping  her  off  balance,  could  easily 
produce  a situation  beyond  even 
Wiliams’s  superlative  pilotage  to 
correct. 

But  they  kept  their  distance,  more 
or  less,  and  followed  Corsair  down, 
down,  through  the  overcast  and 


through  the  clear  air  below  the  cloud 
blanket.  And  beneath  her  was  the 
familiar  landscape  — low,  rolling 
hills,  broad  rivers,  lush  green  plains 
that  were  no  more  than  wide  clear- 
ings in  the  omnipresent  jungle. 

Yes,  it  was  familiar.  The  Com- 
modore could  make  out  the  site  of 
his  first  landing  — one  of  the  smaller 
clearings  that,  by  some  freak  of 
chance  or  nature,  had  the  outline 
of  a great  horse. 

Inevitably,  as  he  had  been  on  the 
occasion  of  his  first  landing.  Grimes 
was  reminded  of  a poem  that  he  had 
read  as  a young  man,  that  he  had 
tried  to  memorize  — The  Ballad  of 
the  White  Horse,  by  Chesterton.  How 
did  it  go? 

For  the  end  of  the  world  was  long 
ago 

And  all  we  stand  today 

As  children  of  a second  birth 

Like  some  strange  people  left  on 
Earth 

After  a Judgment  Day, 

Yes,  the  end  of  their  world  had 
come  for  the  Rim  colonists,  in  this 
Universe,  long  ago. 

And  could  Grimes  and  his  crew 
of  outsiders  reverse  the  Judgment? 

XVIII 

Slowly,  cautiously  Corsair  dropped 
to  the  clearing,  her  incandescent 
rocket  exhaust  incinerating  the  grass- 
like  vegetation,  raising  great,  roiling 
clouds  of  smoke  and  steam.  A hu- 
man-built warship  would  have  been 
fitted  with  nozzles  from  which,  in 
these  circumstances,  a fire-snM>ther- 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


117 


ing  foam  could  be  ejected.  But  Cor- 
sairs builders  would  have  considered 
such  a device  a useless  refinement. 
Slowly  she  settled,  then  came  to  rest, 
rocking  slightly  on  her  tripedal  land- 
ing gear.  Up  and  around  the  con- 
trol room  ports  billowed  the  dirty 
smoke  and  the  white  steam,  gradual- 
ly thinning.  Except  for  a few  desert 
areas  the  climate  of  Stree  was  uni- 
formly wet,  and  nothing  would  burn 
for  long. 

Grimes  asked  May  hew  to  — as  he 
phrased  it  — take  psionic  soundings, 
but  from  his  past  experience  of  this 
planet  he  knew  that  it  would  be  a 
waste  of  time.  The  evidence  indicat- 
ed that  the  Streen  practiced  tele- 
pathy among  themselves  but  that 
their  minds  were  closed  to  outsiders. 
But  the  saurians  must  have  seen  the 
ship  land,  and  the  pillar  of  cloud 
that  she  had  created  would  be  visible 
for  many  miles. 

Slowly  the  smoke  cleared,  and 
those  in  the  control  room  were  able 
to  see,  through  the  begrimed  ports, 
the  edge  of  the  jungle,  the  tangle  of 
lofty,  femlike  growths  with,  between 
them,  the  interlacing  entanglement 
of  creepers.  Something  was  coming 
through  the  jungle,  its  passage  mark- 
ed by  an  occasional  eruption  of  tiny 
flying  lizards  from  the  crests  of  the 
tree  ferns.  Something  was  coming 
through  tbe  jungle  and  heading 
towards  the  ship. 

Gjimes  got  up  from  his  chair  and 
accompanied  Sonya  down  to  the  air- 
lock. He  smiled  with  wry  amusement 
as  he  recalled  his  first  landing  on 
this  world.  Then  he  had  been  able 
to  do  things  properly,  had  strode 
down  the  ramp  in  all  the  glory  of 


gold  braid  and  brass  buttons,  had 
even  worn  a quite  useless  ceremonial 
sword  for  the  occasion.  Then  he  had 
been  accompanied  by  his  staff,  as 
formally  attired  as  himself.  Now  he 
was  wearing  scanty,  dirty  rags  and 
accompanied  by  a woman  as  nearly 
naked  as  he  was.  (But  the  Streen, 
who  saw  no  need  for  clothing,  had 
been  more  amused  than  impressed 
by  his  finery.) 

The  airlock  door  was  open,  and 
the  ramp  was  out.  The  Commodore 
and  his  wife  did  not  descend  at 
once  to  the  still  slightly  smoking 
ground.  One  advantage  of  his  dress 
uniform,  thought  Grimes,  was  that  it 
had  included  half  Wellington  boots. 
The  couple  watched  the  dark  tunnel 
entrance  in  the  cliff  of  solid  greenery 
that  marked  the  end  of  the  jungle 
track. 

A Streen  emerged.  He  would  have 
passed  for  a small  dinosaur  from 
Earth’s  remote  past,  although  the 
trained  eye  of  a paleontologist  would 
have  detected  differences.  There  was 
one  difference  that  was  obvious  even 
to  the  untrained  eye  — the  cranial 
development.  This  being  had  a brain, 
and  not  a small  one.  The  little,  glit- 
tering eyes  stared  at  the  humans. 
A voice  like  the  hiss  of  escaping 
steam  said,  “Greetings.” 

“Greetings,”  replied  the  Commo- 
dore. 

“You  come  again,  man  Grimes.” 
It  was  a statement  of  fact  rather 
than  a question. 

“I  have  never  been  here  before,” 
said  Grimes,  adding,  “Not  in  this 
spacetime.” 

“You  have  been  here  before.  The 
last  time  your  body  was  covered 


118 


IF 


with  cloth  and  metal,  trappings  of 
no  functional  value.  But  no  matter.” 
“How  can  you  remember?” 

“1  cannot,  but  our  Wise  Ones  re- 
member all  things.  What  was,  what 
is  to  come,  what  might  have  been 
and  what  might  be.  They  told  me  to 
greet  you  and  to  bring  you  to  them.” 
Grimes  was  less  than  enthusiastic. 
On  the  occasion  of  his  last  visit,  the 
Wise  Ones  had  lived  not  in  the  jungle 
but  in  a small,  atypical  patch  of 
rocky  desert,  many  miles  to  the 
north.  Then  he  had  been  able  to 
make  the  journey  in  one  of  Faraway 
Quest* s helicopters.  Now  he  had-  no 
flying  machines  at  his  disposal,  and 
a spaceship  is  an  unhandy  brute  to 
navigate  in  a planetary  atmosphere. 
He  did  not  fancy  a long,  long  jour- 
ney on  foot,  or  even  riding  one  of 
the  lesser  saurians  that  the  Streen 
used  as  draught  animals,  along  a 
rough  track  partially  choked  with 
thorny  undergrowth.  Once  again  he 
was  acutely  conscious  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  his  attire. 

The  native  cackled.  (The  Streen 
were  not  devoid  of  a sense  of  hu- 
mour.) He  said,  “The  Wise  Ones  told 
me  that  you  would  not  be  clad  for  a 
journey.  The  Wise  Ones  await  you 
in  the  village.” 

“Is  it  far?”' 

“It  is  where  it  was  when  you  came 
before,  when  you  landed  your  ship 
in  this  very  place.” 

“No  more  than  half  an  hour’s 
walk  — ” began  Grimes,  addressing 
Sonya,  then  fell  suddenly  silent  as  an 
intense  light  flickered  briefly,  chang- 
ing and  brightening  the  green  of  the 
jungle  wall,  the  gaudy  colors  of  the 
flowering  vines. 


Involuntarily  he  looked  up,  but 
the  golden  overcast  was  unbroken. 
There  was  another  flare  behind  the 
cloud  blanket,  blue-white,  distant, 
and  then,  belatedly,  the  thunder  of 
the  first  explosion  drifted  down, 
ominous  and  terrifying. 

“Missiles,”  whispered  the  Commo- 
dore. “And  my  ship’s  a sitting  duck.” 
“Sir,”  hissed  the  saurian,  “you 
are  not  to  worry.  The  Wise  Ones 
have  taken  adequate  steps  for  your 
— and  our  — protection.” 

“But  you  have  no  science,  no  tech- 
nology!” exclaimed  Grimes,  realiz- 
ing the  stupidity  of  what  he  had 
said  when  it  was  too  late. 

“We  have  science,  man  Grimes. 
We  have  machines  to  pit  against  the 
machines  of  your  enemies.  But  our 
machines,  unlike  yours,  are  of  flesh 
and  blood,  not  of  metal  — although 
our  anti-missiles,  like  yours,  possess 
only  a limited  degree  of  intelligence.” 
“These  people,”  explained  Grimes 
to  Sonya,  “are  superb  biological  engi- 
neers.” 

“I  know,”  she  said.  “And  I have 
little  doubt  that  their  air  umbrella 
of  pterodactyls  will  last  longer  tJian 
our  furry  friends’  supply  of  missiles. 
So  I suggest  that  we  leave  them  to 
it  and  go  to  see  the  Wise  Ones.” 
She  looked  dubiously  at  the  jungle, 
then  turned  to  call  to  a woman  in- 
side the  ship,  “Peggy!  Bring  us  out 
a couple  of  machetes!” 

“You  will  not  need  them,”  com- 
mented the  Streen,  “even  though 
your  skins  are  too  soft.” 

They  did  need  them,  even  though 
their  guide  went  ahead  like  a 
tank  clearing  the  way  for  infanifey. 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


119 


The  vines  and  brambles  were 
springy,  reaching  out  with  taloned 
tentacles  as  soon  as  the  saurian  had 
passed. 

Grimes  and  Sonya  slashed  until 
their  arms  were  tired.  But  even  so 
their  perspiration  smarted  painfully 
in  the  fresh  scratches  all  over  their 
bodies.  They  were  far  from  sorry 
when  they  emerged  into  another 
clearing,  a small  one,  almost  com- 
pletely roofed  over  with  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  surrounding  trees. 

There  were  the  usual  huts,  woven 
from  still-living  creepers.  There  was 
the  steaming  compost  pile  that  was 
the  hatchery.  There  were  the  do- 
mesticated lizards,  large  and  small, 
engaged  in  their  s{>ecialized  tasks  — 
digging  the  vegetable  plots,  weeding 
and  pruning.  There  were  the  young 
of  the  Streen,  looking  absurdly  like 
plucked  chickens,  displaying  the  cu- 
riosity that  is  common  to  all  intelli- 
gent beings  throughout  the  galaxy, 
keeping  a respectful  distance  from 
the  visitors,  staring  at  them  from 
their  black,  unwinking  eyes.  There 
were  the  adults,  equally  curious, 
some  of  whom  hustled  the  com- 
munity’s children  out  of  the  path  of 
the  humans,  clearing  a way  to  the 
door  of  a hut  that,  by  Streen  stand- 
ards, was  imposing.  From  the  open- 
ing drifted  blue  eddies  of  smoke  — 
aromatic,  almost  intoxicating.  Grimes 
knew  that  the  use  of  the  so-called 
sacred  herbs,  burned  in  a brazier  and 
the  smoke  inhaled,  was  confined  to 
the  Wise  Ones. 

There  were  three  of  the  beings 
huddled  there  in  the  semi-darkness, 
grouped  around  the  tripod  from  the 
top  of  which  was  suspended  the  cage 


in  which  the  source  of  the  smoke 
smouldered  ruddily. 

The  Commodore  sneezed.  The  va- 
por, as  far  as  he  could  gather,  was 
mildly  euphoric  and,  at  the  same 
time,  hallucinogenic.  But  to  human 
beings  it  was  only  an  irritant  to  the 
nasal  membranes.  In  spite  of  his 
efforts  to  restrain  himself  he  sneezed 
again,  loudly. 

The  Streen  around  the  tripod 
cackled  thinly.  The  Commodore,  his 
eyes  becoming  accustomed  to  the 
dim  lighting,  could  see  that  they  were 
old,  old,  their  scales  shabby  and 
dulled  with  a lichenous  growth,  their 
bones  protuberant  beneath  their  ar- 
mored skins.  There  was  something 
familiar  about  them  — sensed  rather 
than  visually  recognized.  One  of 
them  crackl^,  “Our  dream  smoke 
still  makes  you  sneeze,  man  Grimes.” 
“Yes,  Wise  One.” 

“And  what  do  you  here,  man 
Grimes?  Were  you  not  happy  in  your 
own  here-and-now?  Were  you  not 
happy  with  the  female  of  your  kind 
whom  you  have  acquired  since  last 
we  met,  otherwhen-and-where?” 
“You’d  better  say  ‘yes*  to  that!” 
muttered  Sonya. 

Again  the  thin  cackling.  “We  are 
lucky,  man  Grimes.  We  do  not  have 
the  problems  of  you  mammals,  with 
your  hot  blood.”  A pause.  “But  still 
we  love  life,  just  as  you  do.  And  we 
know  that  out  there,  falling  about 
our  world,  are  those  who  would  end 
oiu*  lives,  just  as  they  would  end 
yours.  Now  they  have  not  the  power 
— but  it  is  within  their  grasp.” 

“But  would  it  matter  to  you?” 
asked  Sonya.  “I  thought  that  you 
were  — how  shall  I put  it?  — co- 


120 


IF 


existent  with  yourselves  in  all  the 
alternative  universes.  You  must  be. 
You  remember  John’s  first  landing 
on  this  planet  — but  that  was  never 
in  this  here-and-now.” 

“You  do  not  understand,  woman 
Sonya.  You  cannot  understand.  But 
we  will  try  to  explain.  Man  Grimes. 
In  your  here-and-now  what  cargoes 
do  your  ships  bring  to  Stree?” 
“Luxuries  like  tea  and  tobacco, 
Wise  One.  And  books.” 

“What  sort  of  books,  man 
Grimes?” 

“History.  Philosophy.  Novels, 
even  — ” then,  as  an  afterthought  — 
“poetry.” 

“And  your  poets  say  more  in  fewer  . 
words  than  your  philosophers.  There 
is  one  whom  I will  quote  to  you. 

And  he  who  lives  more  lives  than 
one 

More  deaths  than  one  shall  die. 
Does  that  answer  your  question, 
woman  Sonya?” 

“I  can  feel  it,”  she  murmured. 
“But  I can’t  understand  it.” 

“It  does  not  matter.  And  it  does 
not  matter  if  you  do  not  understand 
what  you  are  going  to  do  — as  long 
as  you  understand  how  to  do  it.” 
“And  what  is  that?”  asked  Grimes. 
“To  destroy  the  egg  before  it 
hatches,”  was  the  reply. 

XIX 

Anybody  meeting  the  seemingly 
primitive  Streen  for  the  first 
time  would  never  dream  that  these 
saurians,  for  all  their  obvious  intelli- 
gence, are  engineers.  Their  towns 
and  villages  are,  to  the  human  way 
of  thinking,  utterly  innocent  of  ma- 


chines. But  what  is  a living  organism 
but  a machine  — and  engine  that 
derives  its  motive  power  from  the 
combustion  of  hydrocarbons  in  an 
oxygen  atmosphere?  On  Stree  a 
variety  of  semi-intelligent  lizards  per- 
form the  tasks  that  on  man-coloni?ed 
worlds  are  performed  by  mecha- 
nisms of  meal  and  plastic. 

Yes,  the  Streen  are  engineers,  bi- 
ological and  psychological  engineers 
of  no  mean  calibre. 

In  their  dim  hut,  the  little  light 
was  even  further  obscured  by  the 
acrid  fumes  from  the  brazier,  the 
Wise  Ones  talked,  and  Grimes  and 
Sonya  listened.  Much  of  what  they 
were  told  was  beyond  them  — but 
there  was  emotional  rather  than  in- 
tellectual acceptance.  They  would 
not  altogether  understand,  but  they 
could  feel.  And,  after  all,  the  sym- 
biosis of  flesh-and-blood  machine 
and  machine  of  metal  and  plastic 
was  not  too  alien  a concept.  Such 
symbiosis,  to  a limited  extent,  has 
been  known  ever  since  the  first  sea- 
man handled  the  first  ship,  learning 
to  make  that  clumsy  contraption  of 
wood  and  fiber  an  extension  of  his 
own  body. 

Then,  convinced  although  still  not 
understanding,  the  Commodore  and 
his  wife  returned  to  the  ship.  With 
them  — slowly,  creakingly  — walked 
Serressor,  the  most  ancient  of  the 
Wise  Ones,  and  ahead  of  them  their 
original  guide  did  his  best,  as  before, 
to  clear  a way  for  them  through  the 
spiny  growths. 

They  came  to  the  clearing,  to  the 
charred  patch  of  ground  already 
speckled  with  the  pale  green  shoots 
of  new  growth.  And  already  the  air 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


121 


ferns  had  begun  to  take  root  upon 
protuberances  from  the  ship’s  shell 
plating,  from  turrets  and  sponsons 
and  antennae;  already  the  vines  were 
crawling  up  the  vaned  tripod  of  the 
landing  gear.  Williams  had  a work- 
ing party  out,  men  and  women  who 
were  hacking  ill-humoredly  at  the 
superfluous  and  encroaching  green- 
ery. 

From  the  corner  of  his  eye  the 
Executive  Officer  saw  the  approach 
of  the  Commodore,  ceased  shouting 
directions  to  his  crew  and  walked 
slowly  to  meet  his  superior.  He  said, 
“The  game’s  crook.  Skipper.  What 
with  lianas  an’  lithophytes  we’ll  be 
lucky  to  get  off  the  ground.  An’  if 
we  do  — we’ve  had  it,  like  as  not.” 

“Why,  Commander  Williams?” 

“Mayhew  tells  me  that  They  have 
cotton^  on  to  what  their  psionic 
amplifiers  have  been  doing.  So  — 
no  more  psionic  amplifiers.  Period.” 

“So  we  can’t  give  them  false  in- 
formation through  their  own  com- 
munications system,”  said  Sonya. 

“You  can  say  that  again,  Mrs. 
Grimes.” 

Serressor  croaked,  “So  you  depend 
upon  misdirection  to  make  your  es- 
cape from  our  world.” 

“That  is  the  case.  Wise  One,” 
Grimes  told  him. 

“We  have  already  arranged  that, 
man  GrimesJ’ 

“You  have?”  Williams  looked  at 
the  ancient  saurian,  seeing  him  for 
the  first  time.  “Tom  have?  Cor  stone 
the  bleedin’  lizards.  Skipper,  what  is 
this?” 

“This,  Commander  Wiliams,”  said 
Grimes  coldly,  “is  Serressor,  Senior 
Wise  One  of  the  Streen.  He  and  his 


people  are  as  interested  in  disposing 
of  the  mutants  as  we  are.  They  have 
told  us  a way  in  which  it  may  be 
done,  and  Serressor  will  be  coming 
with  us  to  play  his  part  in  the  opera- 
tion.” 

“An’  how  will  you  do  it?”  de- 
manded Williams,  addressing  the 
saurian. 

Serressor  hissed,  “Destroy  the  egg 
before  it  is  hatched.” 

Surprisingly,  Williams  did  not  ex- 
plode into  derision.  He  said  quietly, 
“I’d  thought  o’  that  myself.  We 
could  do  it  — but  it’s  iffy,  iffy.  Too 
bloody  iffy.  There’re  all  the  stories 
about  what  happens  when  the  Drive 
gets  out  o’  kilter  — but  nobody’s 
ever  come  back  to  tell  us  if  they’re 
true.” 

“If  we’re  going  to  use  the  Drive 
as  Serressor  suggests,  it  will  have  to 
be  fitted  with  a special  governor.” 

“That  makes  sense.  Skipper.  But 
where’re  we  gettin’  this  governor 
from?” 

“We  have  it  — or  him  — right 
here.” 

“Better  him  than  me.  There’re  bet- 
ter ways  o’  dyin’  then  bein’  turned 
inside  out.”  He  shifted  his  regard 
to  the  working  party,  who  had  taken 
the  opportunity  to  relax  their  efforts. 
“Back  to  yer  gardenin’,  yer  bunch  o’ 
drongoes!  I want  this  hull  clean  as 
a baby’s  bottom!” 

“Shouldn’t  you  have  said  ‘smooth’. 
Commander?”  asked  Sonya  rather 
sweetly. 

Before  an  argument  could  start 
Grimes  pulled  her  up  the  ramp  and 
into  the  ship. 

Following  them  slowly  came  the 
aged  and  decrepit  saurian. 


122 


IF 


Grimes  and  his.  officers  were 
obliged  to  admit  that  the  Streen 
had  planned  well  and  cunningly. 
When  Corsair  was  ready  for  blasting 
off,  a veritable  horde  of  the  winged 
lizards  assembled  above  her,  most 
of  them  carrying  in  their  talons  frag- 
ments of  metal.  Obedient  to  the 
command  of  their  masters  — the 
Streen  were  telepathic,  but  only  in- 
sofar as  their  own  kind  were  con- 
cerned — the  pterosaurs  grouped 
themselves  into  a formation  re- 
sembling a spaceship,  flapped  off  to 
the  eastward.  To  the  radar  operators 
of  the  blockading  squadron  it  would 
appear  that  Corsair  had  lifted,  was 
navigating  slowly  and  clumsily  with- 
in the  planetary  atmosphere. 

There  were  missiles,  of  course. 
Some  were  intercepted  by  the 
suicidal  air  umbrella  above  the  de- 
coys; some,  whose  trajectory  would 
take  them  into  uninhabited  jungle 
regions,  were  allowed  to  continue 
their  fall  to  the  ground.  They  had 
been  programmed  to  seek  and  to  des- 
troy a spaceship.  Winged  lizards, 
even  metal-bearing  lizards,  they 
ignored. 

Meanwhile  — but  cautiously,  cau- 
tiously, with  frequent  and  random 
shifts  of  frequency  — Corsair's  radio 
was  probing,  the  sky.  It  seemed  that 
the  mutants’  squadron  had  swallowed 
the  bait.  Ship  after  ship  broke  from 
her  orbit,  recklessly  expending  her 
reaction  mass  so  as  to  be  advantage- 
ously situated  when  Corsair,  the 
pseudo-C orsair,  emerged  from  the 
overcast  into  space. 

And  then  the  way  out  was  as 
clear  as  ever  it  would  be.  The  mu- 
tants’ cruisers  were  hull  down,  drop- 


ping below  the  round  shoulder  of  the 
world.  Aboard  Corsair  all  hands  were 
at  their  stations,  and  the  firing  cham- 
bers were  warmed  up  in  readiness. 

Grimes  took  her  upstairs  himself. 
With  a deliberately  dramatic  flourish 
he  brought  his  hand  down  to  the 
keys,  as  though  he  were  smacking 
a ready  and  willing  steed  on  the 
rump. 

It  was  more  like  being  fired  from 
a gun  than  a conventional  blastoff. 
Acceleration  thrust  all  hands  deep 
into  the  padding  of  their  chairs.  The 
Commodore  was  momentarily  wor- 
ried by  a thin,  high  whistling  that 
seemed  to  originate  inside  the  ship 
rather  than  outside  her  hull.  Then, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  brutal  down- 
drag  on  his  facial  muscles,  he  would 
have  smiled.  He  remembered  that 
the  Streen,  normally  coldly  unemo- 
tional, had  always  expressed  appre- 
ciation of  a trip  in  a space-vessel  and 
had  enjoyed,  especially,  violent 
maneuvers  such  as  the  one  that  he 
was  now  carrying  out.  If  Serressor 
was  whistling,  then  he  was  happy. 

Corsair  whipped  through  the  cloud 
blanket  as  though  it  had  been  no 
more  than  a chiffon  veil,  and  harsh 
sunlight  beat  through  the  control 
room  viewports  like  a physical  blow. 
From  the  speaker  of  the  transceiver 
came  a shrill  gabble  of  order  and 
counter-order.  Evidently  some  alert 
radar  operator  had  spotted  the 
breakout.  But  Corsair  was  out  of 
laser  range  from  the  blockading 
squadron,  was  almost  out  of  missile 
range.  And  by  the  time  the  enemy 
was  able  to  close  her  she  would  be 
well  clear  of  the  planet’s  Van  Allens, 
would  be  falling  into  and  through 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


123 


the  dark,  twisted  dimensions  created 
about  herself  by  her  own  interstellar 

drive. 

It  was  time  to  get  Serressor  along 
to  the  Mannschenn  Drive  room. 

Grimes  handed  over  to  Williams, 
waited  until  he  saw  the  Comman- 
der’s capable  hands  resting  on  his 
own  control  panel  and  then,  slowly 
and  painfully,  levered  himself  out  of 
his  seat.  He  found  it  almost  impossi- 
ble to  stand  upright  under  the  crush- 
ing pseudo-  gravity  — but  speed  had 
to  be  maintained,  otherwise  the  ship 
would  be  englobed  by  her  enemies. 
Already  Carter  was  picking  off  the 
first  missiles  with  her  laser.  The 
Commodore  watched  two  burly  Ma- 
rines struggle  to  get  the  aged  saurian 
to  his  feet.  They  were  big  men  and 
strong,  but  the  task  was  almost  be- 
yond them. 

Then,  with  every  shuffling  step 
calling  for  an  almost  superhuman 
effort.  Grimes  led  the  way  to  the 
interstellar  drive  compartment.  There 
— and  how  long  had  it  taken  him 
to  make  that  short  journey?  — he 
found  Bronson,  Chief  Interstellar 
Drive  Engineer,  with  his  juniors.  And 
there  was  the  ship’s  Doctor,  and  the 
telepath  Mayhew.  Extending  from 
the  complexity  of  rotors,  now  still 
and  silent,  was  a tangle  of  cables, 
each  one  of  which  terminated  in  a 
crocodile  clip. 

The  wall  speaker  crackled.  “Com- 
mander to  M.D.  room.  Calling  the 
Commodore.” 

“Commodore  here,  Commander.” 

“Clear  of  Van  Allens.  No  immedi- 
ate danger  from  enemy  fire.” 

“Then  carry  on,  Commander.  You 
know  what  you  have  to  do.” 


“Stand  by  for  free  fall.  Stand  by 
for  course  correction.” 

The  silence,  as  the  rocket  diive 
was  cut,  fell  like  a blow.  Then, 
as  the  whining  directional  gyroscopes 
took  over,  the  doctor,  assisted  by 
Bronson’s  juniors,  began  to  clip  the 
cable  ends  to  various  parts  of  Ser- 
ressor’s  body.  The  old  saurian  hissed 
gently,  “You  cannot  hurt  me,  man 
Doctor.  My  scales  are  thick.”  And 
then  it  was  Mayhew’s  turn,  and  a 
helmet  of  metal  mesh  was  fitted 
over  his  head.  The  telepath  was  pale, 
frightened-looking.  Grimes  sympa- 
thized with  him  and  admired  him. 
Like  every  spaceman,  he  had  heard 
all  the  stories  of  what  happened  to 
those  trapped  in  the  field  of  a mal- 
functioning Drive.  Even  though  this 
would  be  (the  Commodore  hoped) 
a controlled  malfunction,  it  would 
be  a malfunction  nonetheless.  When 
the  situation  had  been  explained  to 
him,  the  telepath  had  volunteered. 
Grimes  hoped  that  the  decoration 
for  which  he  would  recommend  him 
would  not  be  a posthumous  one. 

The  gentle,  off-center  gravitational 
effect  of  centrifugal  force  abruptly 
ceased,  together  with  the  humming 
of  the  directional  gyroscopes.  Then 
the  ship  trembled  violently  and  sud- 
denly, and  again.  A hit?  No,  decided 
the  Commodore,  it  was  Carter  firing 
a salvo  of  missiles.  But  the  use  of 
these  weapons  showed  that  the  en- 
emy must  be  getting  too  close  for 
comfort. 

Williams’s  voice  from  the  bulk- 
head speaker  was  loud,  with  a cer- 
tain urgency. 

“On  course  for  Lorn,  Skipper!” 


124 


IF 


“Mannschenn  Drive  on  remote 
control,”  ordered  Grimes.  “Serressor 
will  give  the  word  to  switch  on.” 
Already  the  doctor  and  the  junior 
engineers  had  left  the  Mannschenn 
Drive  room,  making  no  secret  of 
their  eagerness  to  be  out  of  the 
compartment  before  things  started 
to  happen.  Bronson  was  making 
some  last,  finicking  adjustments 
to  his  machinery,  his  heavily  bearded 
face  worried.  “Hurry  up,  Comman- 
der,” Grimes  snapped. 

The  engineer  grumbled,  “I  don’t 
like  it.  This  is  an  interstellar  drive, 
not  a time  machine.” 

Again  came  the  violent  trembling, 
and  again,  and  again. 

Bronson  finished  what  he  was  do- 
ing, then  reluctantly  left  his  domain. 
Grimes  turned  to  Serressor,  who  now 
looked  as  though  he  had  become 
enmeshed  in  the  web  of  a spider. 
He  said,  “You  know  the  risk.” 

“I  know  the  risk.  If  I am  . . . 
everted,  it  will  be  a new  experience.” 
And  not  a pleasant  one,  thought 
the  Commodore,  looking  at  May- 
hew.  The  telepath  was  paler  than 
ever,  and  his  prominent  Adam’s  ap- 
ple wobbled  as  he  swallowed  hard. 
Not  a pleasant  one.  And  how  could 
this  . . . this  non-human  philoso- 
pher, who  had  never  handled  a metal 
tool  in  his  long  life,  be  so  sure  of 
the  results  of  this  tampering  with,  to 
him,  utterly  alien  machinery?  Sure, 
Serressor  had  read  all  the  books  (or 
his  other-self  in  Grimes’s  own  con- 
tinuum had  read  all  the  books)  on 
the  theory  and  practice  of  Manns- 
chenn Drive  operation.  But  book 
knowledge  is  a poor  substitute  for 
working  experience. 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


“Good  luck,”  said  Grimes  to  the 
saurian  and  to  Mayhew. 

He  left  the  compartment,  carefully 
shut  the  door  behind  him. 

He  heard  the  whine,  the  wrong- 
sounding  whine,  as  the  Drive  started 
up. 

And  then  the  dream-filled  darkness 
closed  about  him. 

XX 

It  is  said  that  a drowning  man  re- 
lives his  life  in  the  seconds  be- 
fore final  dissolution. 

So  it  was  with  Grimes.  But  he  re- 
lived his  life  in  reverse,  experienced 
backwards  the  long  history  of  tri- 
umphs and  disasters,  of  true  and 
false  loves,  of  deprivations  and  shab- 
by compromises,  of  things  and  peo- 
ple that  it  was  good  to  remember, 
of  things  and  people  that  it  had  been 
better  to  forget. 

It  was  the  very  unreality  of  the 
experience,  vivid  though  it  was,  that 
enabled  him  to  shrug  it  off.  It  left 
him  badly  shaken  but  in  full  com- 
mand of  his  faculties  when  the  throb- 
bing whine  of  the  ever-precessing 
gyroscopes  ceased  at  last. 

The  ship  had  arrived. 

But  wheje? 

When? 

Ahead  in  space  and  astern  in  time 
— that  was-  the  principle  of  the 
Mannschenh  Drive.  But  never  full 
astern  - — or,  never  intentionally 
full  astern.  Not  until  now.  And  what 
of  the  governors  that  had  been  fitted 
to  the  machine,  the  flesh-and-blood 
governors  — the  human  telepath  and 
the  saurian  philosopher,  with  his  in- 
tuitive grasp  of  complexities  that  had 


baffled  the  finest  mathematical 
brains  of  mankind? 

Had  the  governors  broken  under 
the  strain? 

And  what  of  himself,  Grimes? 
(And  what  of  Sonya?) 

He  was  still  Grimes,  still  the  Com- 
modore, with  all  his  memories  (so 
far  as  he  knew)  intact.  He  was  not 
a beardless  youth  (his  investigatory 
hand  verified  this).  He  was  not  a 
puling  infant.  He  was  not  a tiny 
blob  of  protoplasm  on  the'  alleyway 
deck.  He  opened  the  door. 

Seiressor  was  still  there,  still  en- 
tangled in  the  shining  filaments.  But 
his  scales  gleamed  with  the  luster  of 
youth,  his  bright  eyes  were  unfilmed. 
His  voice,  as  he  said,  “Man  Grimes, 
we  were  successful!”  was  still  a 
croak,  but  no  longer  a senile  croak. 

“We  did  it!”  confirmed  Mayhew, 
in  an  oddly  high  voice. 

The  telepath  was  shrunken.  The 
rags  that  had  been  his  loin  clout 
were  in  an  untidy  bundle  about  his 
bare  feet.  No,  shrunken  was  not  the 
word.  He  was  smaller,  younger. 
Much  younger. 

“That  was  the  hardest  part,”  he 
said.  “That  was  the  hardest  part  — 
to  stop  the  reversal  of  biological 
time.  Serressor  and  I were  right  in 
the  field,  so  we  were  affected.  But 
the  rest  of  you  shouldn’t  be  changed. 
You  still  have  your  long,  gray  beard. 
Commodore.” 

But  my  beard  wasn*t  gray,  thought 
Grimes,  with  the  beginning  of  panic. 
Neither  was  it  long.  He  pulled  a hair 
from  it,  wincing  at  the  sudden  pain, 
examined  the  evidence  (still  dark 
brown)  while  Serressor  cackled  and 
Mayhew  giggled. 


126 


IF 


“All  right,”  he  growled.  “You’ve 
had  your  joke.  What  now?” 

“We  wait,”  Mayhew  told  him. 
“We  wait,  here  and  now,  until  Sun- 
downer shows  up.  Then  it’s  up  to 
you,  sir.” 

Sundowner,  thought  Grimes.  Jolly 
Swagman.  Waltzing  Matilda.  Names 
that  belonged  to  the  early  history 
of  the  Rim  Worlds.  The  battered  star 
tramps  of  the  Sundowner  Line  that 
had  served  the  border  planets  in  the 
days  of  their  early  colonization,  long 
before  secession  from  the  Federa- 
tion had  been  even  dreamed  of,  long 
before  the  Rim  Worlds  government 
had  itself  become  a shipowner  with 
the  Rim  Runners  fleet. 

Sundowner  Grimes  remembered 
his  history.  She  had  been  the  first 
ship  too  bring  a cargo  of  seed  grain 
to  Lorn.  And  that  was  when  this  al- 
ternative universe,  this  continuum  in 
which  Grimes  and  his  people  were 
invaders,  had  run  off  the  historical 
rails.  Sundowner.  Serressor  knew  his 
history  too.  The  Wise  One  had 
planned  this  rendezvous  in  Space  and 
Time,  so  that  Grimes  could  do 
what,  in  his  universe,  had  been  ac- 
complished by  plague  or  traps  or, 
even,  oats  or  terrier  dogs. 

“I  can  hear  her,”  murmured  May- 
hew distantly.  “She  is  on  time.  Her 
people  are  worried.  They  want  to 
get  to  port  before  their  ship  is 
taken  over  by  the  mutants.” 

“In  this  here-and-now,”  said  Ser- 
ressor, “she  crashed  — will  crash? 
— in  the  mountains.  Most  of  the 
mutants  survived.  But  go  to  your 
control  room,  man  Grimes.  And 
then  you  will  do  what  you  have  to 
do.” 


They  were  all  very  quiet  in  the 
control  room,  all  shaken  by  the 
period  of  temporal  disorientation 
through  which  they  had  passed. 
Grimes  went  first  to  Williams, 
hunched  in  his  co-pilot’s  chair.  He 
said  softly,  “You  are  ready.  Com- 
mander?” 

“Ready,”  answered  the*  Executive 
Officer  tunelessly. 

Then  the  Commodore  went  to  sit 
beside  his  wife.  She  was  pale,  sub- 
dued. She  looked  at  him  carefully, 
and  a faint  smile  curved  her  Ups. 
She  murmured,  “You  aren’t  changed, 
John.  I’m  pleased  about  that.  I’ve 
remembered  too  much,  things  that 
I thought  I’d  forgotten,  and  even 
though  it  was  all  backwards  it  was 
. . . shattering.  I’m  pleased  to  have 
you  to  hold  on  to,  and  I’m  pleased 
that  is  is  you,  and  not  some  puppy.” 
“I  shouldn’t  have  minded  losing 
a few  years  in  the  wash,”  grunted 
Grimes. 

He  looked  at  the  officers  at  their 
stations  — radar,  gunnery,  electronic 
radio.  He  stared  out  of  the  ports  — 
at  the  Lorn  sun,  its  brightness  dim- 
med by  polarization,  at  the  great, 
dim-glowing  galactic  lens.  Here,  at 
the  very  edge  of  the  universe,  the 
passage  of  years,  of  centuries  was  not 
obvious  to  a casual  glance.  There 
were  no  constellations  in  the  Rim 
sky  that,  by  their  slow  distortions, 
could  play  the  part  of  clocks. 

“Contact,”  announced  the  radar 
officer  softly. 

The  Commodore  looked  into  his 
own  repeater  screen,  saw  the  tiny 
spark  that  had  appeared  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  tank. 

The  radio  officer  was  speaking  in- 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


127 


to  his  microphone.  ^^Corsair  to  Sun- 
downer. Corsair  to  Sundowner.  Do 
you  read  me?  Over.” 

The  voice  that  answered  was  that 
of  a tired  man,  a man  who  had 
been  subjected  to  considerable  strain. 
It  was  unsteady,  seemed  on  the  edge 
of  hysteria.  “I  hear  you,  whoever 
you  are.  What  the  hell  did  you  say 
your  name  was?” 

^'Corsair.  This  is  Corsair,  calling 
Sundowner.  Over.” 

“Never  heard  of  you.  What  sort 
of  name  is  that,  anyhow?”  And 
there  was  another,  fainter  voice,  say- 
ing, ""Corsairl  Don’t  like  the  sound 
of  it,  Captain.  Could  be  a pirate.” 
“A  pirate?  Out  here,  on  the  Rim? 
Don’t  be  so  bloody  silly.  There  just 
aren’t  the  pickings  to  make  it  worth- 
while.” A pause.  “If  she  is  a pirate, 
she’s  welcome  to  our  bloody  cargo.” 
**Corsair  to  Sundowner.  Corsair  to 
Sundowner.  Come  in,  please.  Over.” 
“Yes,  Corsair.  I hear  you.  What 
Ihe  hell  do  you  want?” 

“Permission  to  board.” 

“Permission  to  board?  Who  the 
bloody  hell  do  you  think  you  are?” 
“R.W.C.S.  Corsair.^' 

“R.W.C.S.?”  It  was  obvious  that 
Sundowner's  Captain  was  addressing 
his  Mate  without  bothering  either 
to  switch  off  or  to  cover  his  micro- 
phone. “What  the  hell  is  that,  Joe?” 
“Haven’t  a clue,”  came  the  reply. 
Grimes  switched  in  his  own  micro- 
phone. He  did  not  want  to  alarm 
Sundowner,  did  not  want  to  send  her 
scurrying  back  into  the  twisted  con- 
tinuum generated  by  her  Mannschenn 
Drive.  He  knew  that  he  could  blow 
the  unarmed  merchantman  to  a puff 
of  incandescent  vapor  and  that 


such  an  action  would  have  the  de- 
sired result.  But  he  did  not  want  to 
play  it  that  way.  He  was  acutely 
conscious  that  he  was  about  to  com- 
mit the  crime  of  genocide  — and 
who  could  say  that  the  mutated  rats 
were  less  deserving  of  life  than  the 
humans  whom,  but  for  Grimes’s 
intervention,  they  would  replace?  He 
did  not  wish,  also,  to  have  the  mur- 
der of  his  own  kind  on  his  con- 
science. 

“Captain,”  he  said  urgently,  “this 
is  Commodore  Grimes  speaking,  of 
the  naval  forces  of  the  Rim  Worlds 
Confederacy.  It  is  vitally  important 
that  you  allow  us  to  board  your  ship. 
We  know  about  the  trouble  you  are 
having.  We  wish  to  help  you.” 

“You  wish  to  help  us?” 

“If  we  wished  you  ill,”  said 
Grimes  patiently,  “we  could  have 
opened  fire  on  you  as  soon  as  you 
broke  through  into  normal  space- 
time.”  He  paused.  “You  have  a 
cargo  of  seed  grain.  There  were  rats 
in  the  grain.  And  these  rats  have 
been  multiplying.  Am  I correct?” 
“You  are.  But  how  do  you  know?” 
“Never  mind  that.  And  these  rats 
— there  are  mutants  among  them, 
aren’t  there?  You’ve  been  coming 
a long  time  from  Elsinore,  haven’t 
you?  Mannschenn  Drive  breakdowns 
. . . and  fluctuations  in  the  tem- 
poral precession  fields  to  speed  up 
the  rate  of  mutation.” 

“But,  sir,  how  do  you  know?  We 
have  sent  no  messages.  Our  psionic 
radio  officer  was  killed  by  the  . . . 
the  mutants.” 

“We  know.  Captain.  And  now  may 
we  board?” 

From  the  speaker  came  the  faint 


128 


IF 


voice  of  Sundowner's  Mate.  “Rim 
Ghosts  are  bad  enough  — but  when 
they  take  over  Quarantine  it’s  a bit 
rough.” 

“Yes,”  said  Grimes.  “You  may 
regard  us  as  Rim  Ghosts.  But  we’re 
solid  ones.” 

XXI 

His  big  hands  playing  over  his 
console  like  those  of  a master 
pianist,  Williams,  with  short,  care- 
fully timed  bursts  from  the  auxiliary 
jets,  jockeyed  Corsair  into  a position 
only  yards  from  Sundowner y used 
his  braking  rockets  to  match  veloci- 
ties. 

Grimes  and  his  people  stared  out 
through  the  ports  at  the  star  tramp. 
She  was  old,  old.  Even  now,  at  a 
time  that  was  centuries  in  the  past  of 
Corsair's  people,  she  was  obsoles- 
cent. Her  hull  plating  was  dull,  pitted 
by  years  of  exposure  to  micromete- 
orites. Two  of  the  embossed  letters 
of  her  name  had  been  broken  off 
and  never  replaced,  although  some- 
body had  replaced  the  missing  U 
and  W with  crudely  painted  charac- 
ters. Grimes  could  guess  what  con- 
ditions must  be  like  on  board.  She 
would  be  one  of  these  ships  in  which, 
to  give  greater  lift  for  cargo,  the 
pile  shielding  had  been  cut  to  a 
minimum,  the  contents  of  her  holds 
affording,  in  theory,  protection  from 
radiation.  And  her  holds  were  full  of 
grain.  And  this  grain  supported  pests 
that,  through  rapid  breeding  and  mu- 
tation, had  become  a menace  rather 
than  a mere  nuisance. 

“Boarders  away,  sir?”  asked  the 
Marine  officer. 


“Yes,  Major.  Yourself  and  six 
men  should  do.  I and  Mrs.  Grimes 
will  be  coming  with  you.” 

“Side  arms,  sir?” 

“No.  That  crate’ll  have  paper- 
thin  bulkheads  and  shell  plating,  and 
we  can’t  afford  any  playing  around 
with  lasers.” 

“Then  knives  and  clubs,  sir?” 

“It  might  be  advisable.  Yes.” 
Grimes  and  Sonya  left  Control 
for  their  quarters.  There,  helping 
each  other,  they  shrugged  into  their 
modified  spacesuits.  These  still  had 
the  tail  sheaths  and  helmets  designed 
to  accommodate  a long-muzzled 
head.  This  had  its  advantages,  pro- 
viding stowage  for  a full  beard.  But 
Grimes  wondered  what  Sundowner's 
people  would  think  when  they  saw  a 
party  of  seeming  aliens  jetting  from 
Corsair  to  their  airlock.  Anyhow, 
it  was  their  own  fault.  They  should 
have  had  their  vision  transmitter 
and  receiver  in  order. 

The  boarding  party  assembled  at 
the  main  airlock  which,  although  it 
was  cramped,  was  big  enough  to  hold 
all  of  them.  The  inner  door  slowly 
closed  and  then,  after  the  pumps 
had  done  their  work  {Corsair  could 
not  afford  to  throw  away  atmo- 
sphere) the  outer  door  opened. 
Grimes  could  see,  then,  that  an  aper- 
ture had  appeared  in  the  shell  plat- 
ing of  the  other  ship,  only  twenty 
feet  or  so  distant.  But  it  was  small. 
It  must  be  only  an  auxiliary  airlock. 
The  Captain  of  Sundowner y thought 
Grimes,  must  be  a cautious  man, 
must  have  determined  to  let  the 
boarding  party  into  his  ship  one  by 
one  instead  of  in  a body.  And  he'll 
be  more  cautious  stilly  thought 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


129 


Grimes,  when  he  sees  these  space- 
suits. 

He  shuffled  to  the  door  sill.  He 
said  into  his  helmet  miscrophone, 
“There’s  room  for  only  one  at  a 
time  in  that  airlock  of  theirs.  I’ll  go 
first.” 

He  heard  the  Major  acknowledge, 
and  then  he  jumped,  giving  himself 
the  slightest  possible  push-off  from 
his  own  ship.  He  had  judged  well 
and  did  not  have  to  use  his  suit  re- 
action unit.  Slowly,  but  not  too  slow- 
ly, he  drifted  across  the  chasm  be- 
tween the  two  vessels,  extended  his 
arms  to  break  his  fall  and,  with  one 
hand,  caught  hold  of  the  projecting 
rung  above  Sundowner  s airlock 
door. 

As  he  had  assumed,  the  compart- 
ment was  large  enough  to  hold  only 
one  person  — and  he  had  to  act 
quickly  to  pull  his  dummy  tail  out 
of  the  way  of  the  closing  outer  valve. 
There  were  no  lights  in  the  airlock 
— or,  if  there  were  lights,  they 
weren’t  working.  But  after  a while 
he  heard  the  hissing  that  told  him 
that  pressure  was  being  built  up. 

Suddenly  the  inner  door  opened 
and  glaring  light  blinded  the  Com- 
modore. He  could  just  see  two  dark 
figures  standing  there,  with  what 
looked  like  pistols  in  their  hands. 
Through  his  helmet  diaphragm  he 
heard  somebody  say,  “What  did  I 
tell  you.  Captain?  A bleeding  kan- 
garoo in  full  armor,  no  less.  Shall  I 
shoot  it?” 

“Wait!”  snapped  Grimes.  He 
hoped  that  the  note  of  authority 
would  not  be  muffled  from  his  voice. 
“Wait!  I’m  as  human  as  you.” 

“Then  prove  it,  mister!” 


Slowly  the  Commodore  raised  his 
gloved  hands,  turning  them  to 
show  that  they  were  empty.  He 
said,  “I  am  going  to  remove  my  hel- 
met — unless  one  of  you  gentlemen 
would  caie  to  do  it  for  me.” 

“Not  bloody  likely.  Keep  your 
distance.” 

“As  you  please.”  Grimes  mani- 
pulated fastenings,  gave  the  regu- 
lation half  turn  and  lifted.  At  once 
he  noticed  the  smell  — it  was  like 
the  stink  that  had  hung  around  his 
own  wardroom  for  days  after  the 
attempted  interrogation  of  the  prison- 
er. 

“All  right,”  said  one  of  the  men. 
“You  can  come  in.” 

Grimes  shuffled  into  the  ship.  The 
light  was  out  of  his  eyes  now,  and 
he  could  see  the  two  men.  He  did 
not  have  to  ask  who  or  what  they 
were.  Uniform  regulations  change 
far  more  slowly  than  do  civilian 
fashions,  especially  when  uniforms 
are  worn  as  much  for  function  as 
for  appearance.  He  addressed  the 
grizzled,  unshaven  man  with  the  four 
tarnished  gold  bars  on  his  shoulder 
boards,  “We  have  already  spoken 
with  each  other  by  radio,  Captain. 
I am  Commodore  Grimes.” 

“Of  the  Rim  Worlds  Confederacy’s 
Navy.  But  what’s  the  idea  of  the  fan- 
cy dress,  CommodoreT* 

“The  fancy  dress?”  Then  Grimes 
realized  that  the  man  was  referring 
to  his  spacesuit,  so  obviously  de- 
signed for  a non-human.  What  would 
be  his  reaction  to  what  Grimes  was 
wearing  underneath  it  — the  scanty 
rags  and  the  rank  marks  printed  on 
to  his  skin?  But  it  was  of  no  im- 
portance. He  said,  “It’s  a long  story, 

IF 


130 


Captain,  and  I haven’t  time  to  tell 
it  now.  What  I am  telling  you  is 
that  you  must  not,  repeat  not,  at- 
tempt a landing  on  Lorn  until  I have 
given  you  clearance.” 

“And  who  the  hell  do  you  think 
you  are.  Mister  so-called  Commo- 
dore? We’ve  had  trouble  enough  this 
trip.  What  is  your  authority?” 

“My  authority?”  Grimes  grinned. 
“In  my  own  space  and  time,  the 
commission  I hold,  signed  by  the 
President  of  the  Confederacy.” 
“What  did  I say?”  demanded  the 
Mate.  “And  I’ll  say  it  again.  He’s 
some  sort  of  bloody  pirate.” 

“And,  in  the  here-and-now,”  con- 
tinued Grimes,  “my  missile  batteries 
and  my  laser  projectors.” 

“If  you  attempt  to  hinder  me  from 
proceeding  on  my  lawful  occasions,” 
said  the  tramp  Master  stubbornly, 
“that  will  be  piracy.” 

Grimes  looked  at  him,  not  with- 
out sympathy.  It  was  obvious  that 
this  man  had  been  pushed  to  the 
very  limits  of  human  endurance.  The 
lined  face  and  the  red-rimmed  eyes 
told  of  many,  too  many,  hours  with- 
out sleep.  And  he  had  seen  at  least 
one  of  his  officers  killed.  By  this 
time  he  would  be  regarding  the  en- 
emies infesting  his  ship  as  mutineers 
rather  than  mutants  and,  no  longer 
quite  rational,  would  be  determined 
to  bring  his  cargo  to  port  come  Hell 
or  High  Water. 

And  that  he  must  not  do. 

Grimes  lifted  his  helmet  to  put  it 
back  on.  In  spite  of  the  metal 
with  which  he  was  surrounded  he 
might  be  able  to  get  through  to  Wil- 
liams in  Corsair's  control  room,  to 


Williams  and  to  Carter,  to  give  the 
order  that  would  call  a laser  beam 
to  slice  off  Sundowner's  main  ven- 
turi. But  the  Mate  guessed  his  in- 
tention, swung  viciously  with  his 
right  arm  and  knocked  the  helmet 
out  of  the  Commodore’s  hand.  He 
growled  to  his  Captain,  “We  d6n’t 
want  the  pirate  callin’  his  little 
friends,  do  we,  sir?” 

“It  is  essential  that  I keep  in  com- 
munication with  my  own  ship,”  said 
Grimes  stiffly. 

“So  you  can  do  somethin’  with  all 
the  fancy  ironmongery  you  were 
tellin’  us  about!”  The  Mate  vicious- 
ly swatted  the  helmet  which,  having 
rebounded  from  a bulkhead,  was  now 
drifting  through  the  air. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  Grimes  rea- 
sonably, looking  at  the  two  men  and 
at  the  weapK>ns  they  carried,  auto- 
matic pistols,  no  more  than  five 
millimeter  calibre  but  deadly  enough. 
He  might  disarm  one  — but  the 
other  would  fire.  “Gentlemen,  I 
have  come  to  help  you.” 

“More  of  a hindrance  than 
a bloody  help,”  snarled  the  Mate. 
“We’ve  enough  on  our  plates  already 
without  having  to  listen  to  your  fairy 
stories  about  some  non-existent  Con- 
federacy.” He  turned  to  the  Master. 
“What  say  we  start  up  the  reaction 
drive  an’  set  course  for  Lorn?  This 
bloke’s  cobbers’ll  not  open  fire  so 
long  as  he’s  aboard.” 

“Yes.  Do  that,  Mr.  Holt.  And 
then  we’ll  put  this  man  in  irons.” 

So  this  was  it,  thought  Grimes 
dully.  So  this  was  the  immutability 
of  the  Past,  of  which  he  had  so 
often  read.  This  was  the  inertia  of 
the  flow  of  events.  He  had  come  to 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


131 


where  and  when  he  could  best  stick 
a finger  into  the  pie  — but  the  crust 
was  too  tough,  too  hard.  He  couldn’t 
blame  the  tramp  Captain.  He,  as  a 
good  shipmaster,  was  displaying  the 
utmost  loyalty  to  his  charterers.  And 
— Grimes  remembered  his  Rim 
Worlds  history  — those  consignments 
of  seed  grain  had  been  urgently 
needed  on  Lorn. 

And,  more  and  more,  every  word 
was  an  effort,  every  action.  It  was 
as  though  he  were  immersed  in  some 
viscous  fluid,  fathoms  deep.  He  was 
trying  to  swim  against  the  Time 
Stream  — and  it  was  too  much  for 
him. 

Why  not  just  drift?  After  all, 
there  would  be  time  to  do  something 
after  the  landing  at  Port  Forlorn.  Or 
would  there?  Hadn’t  somebody  told 
him  that  this  ship  had  crashed  in 
mountainous  country? 

He  was  aroused  from  his  despair- 
ing lethargy  by  a sudden  clangor  of 
alarm  bells,  by  a frightened,  distorted 
voice  that  yammered  from  a bulk- 
head speaker,  “Captain!  Where  are 
you.  Captain?  They’re  attacking  the 
control  room!” 

More  as  the  result  of  years  of 
training  than  of  conscious  thought 
he  suatohed  his  drifting  helmet  as 
he  followed  the  Captain  and  his  Mate 
when  they  dived  into  the  axial  shaft, 
as  they  puhed  themselves  hand  over 
hand  along  the  guidelines  to  the  bows 
of  the  ship. 

XXII 

4 4rr^heyTe  attacking  the  control 
A room!” 

The  words  echoed  through 


Grimes’  mind.  They  must  be  Sonya 
and  the  Major  and  his  men.  They 
must  have  breached  the  ports.  So 
far  there  was  no  dimunition  of  air 
pressure  — but  even  such  a sorry 
rustbucket  as  Sundowner  would  have 
her  airtight  doors  in  reasonably  good 
working  order.  All  the  same,  he 
deemed  it  prudent  to  pause  in  his 
negotiation  of  the  axial  shaft  to  put 
his  helmet  back  on.  Luckily  the 
rough  treatment  that  it  had  re- 
ceived at  the  hands  of  the  Mate  did 
not  seem  to  have  damaged  it. 

Ahead  of  him,  the  two  Sundowner 
officers  were  making  rapid  progress. 
It  was  obvious  that  they  were  not 
being  slowed  down  by  emergency 
doors  and  sphincter  locks.  The  Com- 
modore tried  to  catch  up  with  them; 
but  he  was  hampered  by  a spacesuit, 
and  they  were  not. 

Then,  faintly  through  his  helmet 
diaphragm,  he  heard  the  sounds  of 
a- struggle,  a fight.  There  were  shots 
— by  the  sharpness  of  the  cracks 
fired  from  small  caliber  pistols  such 
as  the  Captain  and  his  Mate  had 
been  carrying.  There  were  shouts 
and  screams.  And  there  was  a dread- 
ful, high  squeaking  that  was  familiar, 
too  familiar.  He  thought  that  he 
could  make  out  words  — or  the 
repetition  of  one  word  only. 

“Kill!  Kill!” 

He  knew  theq  who  They  were 
and  pulled  himself  along  the  guide- 
line with  the  utmost  speed  of  which 
he  was  capable.  Glancing  ahead,  he 
saw  that  Sundowner*s  Master  and 
his  second  in  command  were 
scrambling  through  the  open  hatch 
at  the  end  of  the  shaft,  the  hatch 
that  must  give  access,  in  a ship  of 


132 


IF 


this  type,  to  Control.  He  heard  more 
shots,  more  shouts  and  screams.  He 
reached  the  hatch  himself,  pulled 
himself  through,  floundered  wildly 
for  long  seconds  until  his  magnetized 
boot  soles  made  contact  with  the 
deck. 

They  ignored  him  at  first.  Per- 
haps it  was  that  they  took  him  — 
in  his  tailed  suit  with  its  snouted 
helmet  — for  one  of  their  own  kind, 
although,  by  their  standards,  a gi- 
ant. They  were  small,  no  larger  than 
a terrier  dog,  but  there  were  many 
of  them.  They  were  fighting  with 
claws  and  teeth  and  pieces  of  sharp- 
ened metal  that  They  were  using  as 
knives.  A fine  mist  of  blood  fogged 
the  faceplate  of  Grimes’s  helmet, 
half  blinding  him.  But  he  could  see 
at  least  two  human  bodies,  obviously 
dead,  their  throats  torn  out,  and  at 
least  a dozen  of  the  smaller  corpses. 

He  did  not  give  himself  time  to 
be  shocked  by  the  horror  of  the 
scene.  (That  would  come  later,  much 
later.)  He  tried  to  wipe  the  film  of 
blood  from  his  visor  with  a gloved 
hand,  but  only  smeared  it.  But  he 
could  see  that  the  fight  was  still  go- 
ing on.  In  the  center  of  the  control 
room  a knot  of  spacemen  was  still 
standing,  still  struggling.  They  must 
either  have  lost  their  pistols  or  ex- 
hausted their  ammunition;  there 
were  no  more  shots. 

Grimes  joined  the  fight,  his  ar- 
mored fists  and  arms  flailing  into 
the  mass  of  furry  bodies,  his  hands 
crushing  them  and  pulling  them 
away  from  the  humans,  throwing 
them  from  him  with  savage  violence. 
At  first  his  attack  met  with  success 
— and  then  the  mutants  realized 


that  he  was  another  enemy.  Their 
squeaking  rose  to  an  initolerable  level, 
and  more  and  more  of  them  poured 
into  the  control  room.  They  swarm- 
ed over  the  Commodore,  clinging 
to  his  arms  and  legs,  immobilizing 
him.  Sundowner's  officers  could  not 
help  him.  They,  too,  were  fighting 
a losing  battle  for  survival. 

There  was  a scratching  at  Grimes’s 
throat.  One  of  his  assailants  had  a 
knife  of  sorts,  was  trying  to  saw 
through  the  fabric  joint.  It  was  a 
tough  fabric,  designed  for  wear  and 
tear  — but  not  such  wear  and  tear 
as  this.  Somehow  the  man  contrived 
to  get  his  right  arm  clear,  managed, 
with  an  effort,  to  bring  it  up  to  bat 
away  the  knife  wielder.  He  succeeded 
— somehow.  And  then  there  was 
more  scratching  and  scraping  at  the 
joint  at  his  armpit. 

He  was  blinded,  helpless,  sub- 
merged in  a sea  of  furry  bodies,  all 
too  conscious  of  the  frantic  scrab- 
blings  of  their  teeth  arid  claws  and 
knives.  His  armor,  hampering  his 
every  movement  even  in  ideal  con- 
ditions, could  well  contribute  to  his 
death  rather  than  saving  his  life.  He 
struggled  still  — but  it  was  an  in- 
stinctive struggle  rather  than  one 
consciously  directed,  no  more  than 
a slow,  agonized  shrugging,  a series 
of  laborious  contortions  to  protect 
his  vulnerable  joints  from  sharp  teeth 
and  serrated  blades. 

Then  there  was  a respite,  and  he 
could  move  once  more. 

He  saw,  dimly,  that  the  control 
room  was  more  crowded  than 
ever,  that  other  figures,  dressed  as 
he  was,  had  burst  in,  were  fighting 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


133 


with  deadly  efficiency,  with  long, 
slashing  blades  and  bone-crushing 
cudgels.  It  was  a hand-to^and  battle 
in  a fog  — and  the  fog  was  a dread- 
ful cloud  of  finely  divided  particles 
of  freshly  shed  blood. 

But  even  these  reinforcements 
were  not  enough  to  turn  the  tide. 
Sooner  or  later  — and  probably 
sooner  — the  mutants  would  swamp 
the  humans,  armored  and  unarmor- 
ed, by  sheer  weight  of  numbers. 

“Abandon  ship!”  somebody  was 
shouting.  It  was  a woman’s  voice, 
Sonya’s.  “Abandon  ship!  To  the. 
boats!”  And  then  the  cry  — fainter 
this  time,  heard  through  the  helmet 
diaphragm  rather  than  over  his  suit 
radio  — was  repeated.  It  is  no  light 
matter  to  give  up  one’s  vessel.  But 
now,  after  this  final  fight.  Sundown- 
er*s  people  were  willing  to  admit 
they  they  were  beaten. 

Somehow  the  armored  Marines 
managed  to  surround  the  crew  — 
what  was  left  of  them.  The  Captain 
was  still  alive,  although  only  half 
oooscious.  The  Mate,  apart  from  a 
few  scratches,  was  untouched.  There 
were  two  engineers  and  an  hysterical 
wcMnan  with  Purser’s  braid  on  her 
tom  shirt.  That  was  all.  They  were 
hustled  by  Corsair's  men  to  the 
hatch,  thrust  down  the  axial  shaft. 
Grimes  shouted  his  protest  as  some- 
body pushed  him  after  them.  He 
realized  that  it  was  Sonya,  that  she 
was  still  with  him.  Over  their  heads 
the  hatch  lid  slammed  into  its  closed 
position. 

“The  Major  and  his  men,”  he 
managed  to  get  out.  “They  can’t 
stay  there,  in  that  hell!” 

“They  won’t,”  she  told  him. 


“They’ll  manage.  Our  job  is  to  get 
these  people  clear  of  the  ship  and  to 
do  it  immediately.” 

“And  then?” 

“Who’s  in  charge  of  this  bloody 
operation?”  she  asked  tartly.  “Who 
was  it  who  told  the  Admiral  that 
he  was  going  to  play  this  whole  thing 
by  ear?” 

Then  they  were  out  of  the  axial 
shaft  and  into  a boat  bay.  They 
watched  the  Mate  help  the  woman 
into  the  small,  torped6-like  craft, 
then  stand  back  to  allow  the  two 
engineers  to  enter.  He  tried  to  assist 
the  Captain  to  board  — but  his 
superior  pushed  him  away  weakly, 
saying,  “No,  Mister.  I’ll  be  the  last 
man  off  my  ship,  if  you  please.”  He 
noticed  Grimes  and  Sonya  standing 
there.  “And  that  applies  to  you,  too, 
Mr.  Commodore  whoever  you  say 
you  ;are.  Into  the  boat  with  you  — 
you  and  your  mate.” 

“We’ll  follow  you.  Captain.  It’s 
hardly  more  than  a step  across  to 
our  own  ship.” 

“Into  the  boat  with  you,  damn 
you.  I shall  be  . . . the  . . . last ...” 
The  man  was  obviously  on  the 
verge  of  collapse.  His  Mate  grasped 
his  elbow.  “Sir,  this  is  no  time  to 
insist  on  protocol.  We  have  to  hurry. 
Can’t  you  hear  Them?” 

Through  his  helmet  Grimes,  him- 
self, hadn’t  heard  them  until  now. 
But  the  noise  was  there,  the  fren- 
zied chittering,  surely  louder  with 
every  passing  second.  “Get  into  that 
bloody  boat,”  he  told  the  Mate. 
“We’ll  handle  the  doors.” 

“I  . . . insist  . . .”  whispered  the 
Captain.  “I  shall  ...  be  ...  the  last 
...  to  leave . . .” 


134 


IF 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


135 


( ^ow  wJiat  to  do,”  Grimes 

1 toldlbeM^ 

**And  many’s  die  time  Fve  wanted 
to  do  it.  But  not  in  these  dicum- 
stances.”  His  fist  came  up  to  his 
superior’s  jaw.  It  was  little  more 
than  a tap,  but  enough.  The  Master 
did  not  fall,  could  not  fall  in  these 
conditions  of  zero  gravity.  But  he 
swayed  there,  anchored  to  the  deck 
by  his  magnetic  boot  soles,  out  on 
his  feet.  The  two  engineers  emerged 
from  the  lifecraft,  lugged  the  uncon- 
scious man  inside. 

“Hurry!”  ordered  Sonya. 

“Make  for  your  ship,  sir?”  asked 
the  Mate.  “You’ll  pick  us  up?” 

“No.  Sorry  — but  there’s  no  time 
to  explain.  Just  get  the  hell  out  and 
make  all  speed  for  Lorn.” 

“But  . . .” 

“You  heard  what  the  Commodore 
said,”  snapped  Sonya.  “Do  it.  If 
you  attempt  to  lay  your  boat  along- 
side we  open  fire.” 

“But  . . .” 

Grimes  had  removed  his  helmet 
so  that  his  voice  would  not  be 
muffled  by  the  diaphragm.  “Get  into 
that  bloody  boat!”  he  roared.  And 
in  a softer  voice,  as  the  Mate  obeyed, 
“Good  luck.” 

He  replaced  his  helmet  and,  as  he 
did  so,  Sonya  operated  the  controls 
set  into  the  bulkhead.  A door  slid 
shut,  sealing  off  the  boat  bay  from 
the  rest  ‘of  the  ship.  The  outer  door 
opened,  revealing  the  black  empti- 
ness of  the  Rim  Sky.  Smoothly  and 
efficiently  the  catapult  operated, 
throwing  the  boat  out  and  clear. 
Intense  violet  flame  blossomed  at 
her  blunt  stem,  and  then  she  was 
away,  diminishing  into  the  distance. 


coming  around  in  a great  arc  on  to 
the  trajectory  that  would  take  her  to 
safety. 

Grimes  didn’t  watch  her  for  long. 
He  said,  “We’d  better  gel  back  to 
Control,  to  help  the  Major  and  his 
men.  They’re  trapped  in  there.” 
“They  aren’t  trapped.  They’re  just 
waiting  to  see  that  the  boat’s  es- 
caped.” 

“But  how  will  they  get  out?” 
“The  same  way  that  we  got  into 
this  rustbucket.  We‘  sent  back  to  the 
ship  for  a laser  pistol,  burned  our 
way  in.  Luckily  the  airtight  doors 
were  all  in  good  working  order.” 
“You  took  a risk.” 

“It  was  a risk  we  had  to  take. 
And  we  knew  that  you  were  wearing 
a spacesuit.  But  it’s  time  we  weren’t 
here.” 

“After  you.” 

“My  God!  Are  you  going  to  be  as 
stuffy  as  that  Captain?” 

Grimes  didn’t  argue,  but  pushed 
her  out  of  the  boat  lock.  He  jumped 
after  her,  somersaulting  slowly  in 
the  emptiness.  He  used  his  suit  re- 
action unit  to  steady  himself  and 
found  himself  facing  the  ship  that 
he  had  just  left.  He  saw  an  explo- 
sion at  her  bows,  a billowing  cloud 
of  debris  that  expanded  slowly  — 
broken  glass,  crystallizing  atmo- 
sphere, a gradually  separating  mass 
of  bodies,  most  of  which  ceased  to 
move  after  a very  few  seconds. 

But  there  were  the  larger  bodies, 
seven  of  them,  spacesuited  — and 
each  of  them  sprouted  a tail  of  in- 
candescence as  the  Marines  jetted 
back  to  their  own  ship.  The  Major 
had  used  his  laser  pistol  to  break 
out  through  the  control  room  ports. 


136 


IF 


All  the  mutants  would  not  be  dead. 
There  would  be  survivors,  sealed  off 
in  their  airtight  compartments  by 
the  slamming  of  the  emergency 
doors. 

The  survivors  could  be  disposed 
of  by  Corsair's  main  armament. 

XXIII 

4CTTTe  were  waiting  for  you, 

VV Skipper,”  Williams  told 
Grimes  cheerfully  as  the  Commo- 
dore re-entered  his  own  control 
room. 

“Very  decent  of  you.  Comman- 
der,” Grimes  said,  remembering  how 
the  Mate  of  Sundowner  had  realized 
his  long  standing  ambition  and  clob- 
bered his  Captain.  “Very  decent  of 
you.” 

He  looked  out  of  the  viewports. 
The  grain  carrier  was  still  close,  at 
least  as  close  as  she  had  been  when 
he  had  boarded  her.  The  use  of  mis- 
siles would  be  dangerous  to  the  ves- 
sel employing  them.  Even  lasers 
might  touch  off  a mutually  destruc- 
tive explosion. 

“You  must  still  finish  your  task, 
man  Grimes,”  Serressor  reminded 
him. 

“I  know.  I know.”  But  there  was 
no  hurry.  There  was  ample  time  to 
consider  ways  and  means. 

“All  armament  ready,  sir,”  re- 
ported Carter. 

“Thank  you.  To  begin  with,  Com- 
mander Williams,  we’ll  open  the 
range  . . .” 

Then,  suddenly,  the  outline  of  Sun- 
downer shimmered,  shimmered  and 
faded.  She  flickered  out  like  a can- 
dle in  a puff  of  wind. 


Grimes  cursed.  He  should  have 
foreseen  this.  The  mutants  had  access 
to  the  Mannschenn  Drive  machinery 
— and  how  much,  by  continuous 
eavesdropping,  had  they  learned? 
How  much  did  they  know? 

“Start  M.D.,”  he  ordered.  “Stand- 
ard precession.” 

It  took  time  — but  not  too  long 
a time.  Bronson  was*  already  in  the 
Mannschenn  Drive  room,  and  Bron- 
son had  been  trained  to  the  naval 
way  of  doing  things  rather  than  the 
relatively  leisurely  procedure  of  the 
merchant  service.  (Himself  a mer- 
chant officer,  a reservist,  he  had  al- 
ways made  it  his  boast  that  he  could 
beat  the  navy  at  its  own  game.) 
There  was  the  brief  period  of  tem- 
poral disorientation,  the  uncanny 
feeling  that  time  was  running  back- 
wards, the  giddiness,  the  nausea. 
Outside  the  ports  the  Galactic  Lens 
assumed  the  appearance  of  a distort- 
ed Klein  flask,  and  the  Lorn  sun 
became  a pulsing  spiral  of  multi- 
colored light. 

But  there  was  no  sign  of  Sundown- 
er, 

Grimes  was  speaking  into  the  tele- 
phone. “Commander  Bronson!  Can 
you  synchronize?” 

“With  whatT  Then  — “Fll  try, 
sir.  ni  try.” 

Grimes  could  visualize  the  en- 
gineer watching  the  flickering  nee- 
dles of  his  gauges,  the  undulant  traces 
in  his  oscilloscopes,  making  adjust- 
ments measured  in  fractions  of  mi- 
croseconds to  his  controls.  Subtly 
the  keening  song  of  the  spinning, 
pressing  gyroscopes  wavered.  And 
as  it  did  so  the  outlines  of  the  peo- 
ple and  instruments  in  the  control 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


137 


roam  lost  their  sharpness,  while  the 
colors  of  everything  momentarily 
dulled  and  then  became  more  vivid. 

“There’s  the  damned  ship!”  shout- 
ed Williams. 

And  there  she  was,  close  aboard 
them,  a phantom  ship  adrift  on  a 
sea  of  impossible  blackness,  insub- 
stantial, quivering  on  the  very  verge 
of  invisibility. 

“Fire  at  will!”  ordered  Grimes. 

“But,  sir,”  protested  one  of  the 
officers.  “If  we  interfere  with  the 
ship’s  mass  while  the  Drive  is  in 
operation.  . .” 

Fire  at  will!'*  repeated  the  Com- 
modore. 

“Aye,  aye,  sir!”  acknowledged 
Carter  happily. 

But  it  was  like  shooting  at  a shad- 
ow. Missiles  erupted  from  their 
launchers,  laser  beams  stabbed  out 
at  the  target  — and  nothing  happen- 
ed. From  the  bulkhead  speaker  of 
the  intercom  Bronson  snarled,  “What 
the  hell  are  you  playing  at  up  there? 
How  the  hell  can  I hold  her  in 
synchronization?” 

“Sorry,  Commander,”  said  Grimes 
into  his  microphone.  “Just  lock  on, 
and  hold  her.  Just  hold  her,  that’s 
all  I ask.” 

“An’  what  now,  Skipper?”  de- 
manded Williams.  “What  now?” 

“We  shall  use  the  Bomb,”  said 
Grimes  quietly. 

4CTxre  shall  use  the  Bomb,”  he 
y V said.  He  knew,  as  did  all  of 
his  people,  that  the  fusion  device 
was  their  one  hope  of  a return  to 
their  own  Space  and  Time.  But 
Sundowner  must  be  destroyed;  the 
Time  Stream  must,  somehow,  be  di- 


verted. Chemical  explosives  and  de- 
structive light  beams  were,  in  these 
circumstances,  useless.  There  re- 
mained only  the  Sunday  Punch. 

The  ships  were  close,  so  close  that 
their  temporal  precession  fields  inter- 
acted. Even  so,  it  was  obvious  why 
all  the  weapons  so  far  employed  had 
failed.  Each  and  every  discharge 
had  meant  an  appreciable  alteration 
of  Corsair's  temporal  precession 
rate,  so  that  each  and  every  missile 
and  beam  had  missed  in  Time  rather 
than  in  Space.  Had  Corsair  been 
fitted  with  one  of  the  latest  model 
synchronizers  her  gunnery  might 
have  been  more  successful  — but 
she  was  not.  Only  Bronson’s  skill 
was  keeping  her  in  visual  contact 
with  her  prey. 

Getting  the  Bomb  into  position 
was  not  the  same  as  loosing  off  a 
missile.  Slowly,  gently,  the  black- 
painted  cylinder  was  eased  out  of  its 
bay.  The  merest  puff  from  one  of 
its  compressed  air  jets  nudged  it 
away  from  Corsair  towards  the  tar- 
get. It  fell  gently  through  the  space 
between  the  two  ships,  came  finally 
to  rest  against  Sundowner's  scarred 
hull. 

At  an  order  from  Grimes  the 
thick,  lead  shutters  slid  up  over  the 
control  room  ports.  (But  the  thing 
was  close,  so  close,  too  close.  Even 
with  the  radar  on  minimum  range, 
the  glowing  blob  that  was  Sundowner 
almost  filled  the  tank.)  Carter  looked 
at  Grimes,  waiting  for  the  order. 
His  face  was  pale  — and  it  was 
not  the  only  pale  face  in  Control. 
But  Serressor  — that  blasted  lizard! 
— was  filling  the  confined  space 
with  his  irritating  whistling. 


133 


IF 


Sonya  came  to  sit  beside  him. 
She  said  quietly,  “You  have  to 
do  it.  We  have  to  do  it.” 

Even  her  presence  could  not  dispel 
the  loneliness  of  command.  “No,” 
he  told  her.  “/  have  to  do  it.” 
“Locking,”  came  Bronson’s  voice 
from  the  bulkhead  speaker.  “Lock- 
ing. Holding.” 

“Fire,”  said  Grimes. 

XXIV 

ime  had  passed. 

How  long.  Grimes  did  not 
know,  nor  would  he  ever  know. 
(Perhaps,  he  was  often  to  suspect 
later,  this  was  the  next  time  around, 
or  the  time  after  that.) 

He  half  opened  his  eyes  and  look- 
ed at  the  red-haired  woman  who  was 
shaking  him  back  to  wakefulness  — 
the  attractive  woman  with  the  faint 
soar  still  visible  between  her  firm 
breasts.  What  was  her  name?  He 
should  know.  He  was  married  to  her. 
Or  had  been  married  to  her.  It  was 
suddenly  of  great  importance  that 
he  should  remember  what  she  was 
called. 


Susan  . . .? 

Sarah  . . .? 

No  . . . 

Sonya  . . .? 

Yes,  Sonya.  That  was  it. 

“John,  wake  up!  Wake  up!  It’s  all 
over  now.  The  Bomb  blew  us  back 
into  our  own  Continuum,  back  to 
our  own  Time,  even!  We’re  in  touch 
with  Port  Forlorn  Naval  Control, 
and  the  Admiral  wants  to  talk  to 
you  personally.” 

“He  can  wait,”  said  Grimes,  feel- 
ing the  fragments  of  his  prickly  per- 
sonality click  back  into  place. 

He  opened  his  eyes  properly,  saw 
Williams  sitting  at  his  controls,  saw 
Serressor,  near  by,  still  youthful,  and 
with  him  the  gangling  adolescent 
who  was  Mayhew. 

For  a moment  he  envied  them. 
They  had  regained  their  youth  — 
but  at  a dreadful  risk  to  themselves. 
Even  so,  they  had  been  lucky. 

And  so,  he  told  himself,  had  been 
the  human  race  — not  for  the  first 
time,  and  not  for  the  last. 

He  thought,  I hope  I’m  not  around 
when  our  luck  finally  does  run  out. 

END 


REPORT  ON  THE  SLOW  FREEZE 

Latest  word  on  the  controversial  "Immortality  Through 
Freezing"  program  which  may  bring  us  eternal  life  nowl 

by  R.  C.  W.  Ettinger 

CROWN  OF  STARS 

by  Lin  Carter 

plus  many  other  stories  ond  features  in  the  November 
Worlds  of  Tomorrow,  On  Sale  now  — don't  miss  iti 


EDGE  OF  NIGHT 


139 


IF  • Novelette 


IN  THE  BONE 

by  GORDON  R.  DICKSON 

Illustrated  by  FINLAY 

He  came  off  the  deadliest  war 
fleet  in  history  to  do  battle 
with  naked  hands  — and  brain! 


I 

Personally,  his  name  was  Harry 
Brennan. 

Officially,  he  was  the  John  Paul 
Jones,  which  consisted  of  four  bil- 
lion doflars  worth  of  irresistible 
equipment  — the  latest  and  best  of 
human  science  — designed  to  spread 
its  four  thousand-odd  components 
out  through  some  fifteen  cubic  me- 
ters of  space  under  ordinary  con- 
ditions— designed  also  to  stretch 
across  light-years  under  extraordi- 


nary conditions  (such  as  send- 
ing an  emergency  messenger-com- 
ponent home)  or  to  clump  into 
a single  magnetic  unit  in  order  to 
shift  through  space  and  explore  the 
galaxy.  Both  officially  and  person- 
ally — but  most  of  all  personally 
— he  represents  a case  in  point. 

The  case  is  one  having  to  do  with 
the  relative  importance  of  the  made 
thing  and  its  maker. 

It  was,  we  all  know,  the  armored 
horseman  who  dominated  the  early 
wars  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  Europe. 


140 


But,  knowing  this,  it  is  still  wise 
to  remember  that  it  was  not  the  iron 
shell  that  made  the  combination  of 
man  and  metal  terrible  to  the  en- 
emy, — but  rather  the  essentially 
naked  man  inside  the  shell.  Later, 
French  knights  depending  on  their 
armor  went  down  before  the  cloth- 
yard  shafts  of  unarmored  footmen 
with  bows,  at  Crecy  and  Poitiers. 

And  what  holds  true  for  armor 
holds  true  for  the  latest  develop- 
ments of  our  science  as  well.  It  is 
not  the  spacecraft  or  the  laser  on 
which  we  will  find  ourselves  depend- 
ing when  a time  of  ultimate  decision 
comes,  but  the  naked  men  within  and 
behind  these  things.  When  that  time 
comes,  those  who  rank  the  made 
thing  before  its  maker  will  die  as 
the  French  knights  died  at  Crecy 
and  Poitiers.  This  is  a law  of  na- 
ture as  wide  as  the  universe,  which 
Harry  Brennan,  totally  unsuspecting, 
was  to  discover  once  more  for  us, 
in  his  personal  capacity. 

Personally,  he  was  in  his  mid-twen- 
ties, unremarkable  except  for 
two  years  of  special  training  with 
the  John  Paul  Jones  and  his  superb 
ph3^sical  condition.  He  was  five- 
eleven,  a hundred  seventy-two 
pounds,  with  a round,  cheerful  face 
under  his  brown  crew-cut  hair.  I 
was  Public  Relations  Director  of  the 
Project  that  sent  him  out;  and  I 
was  there  with  the  rest  to  slap  him 
on  the  back  the  day  he  left. 

“Don’t  get  lost,  now,”  said  some- 
one. Harry  grinned. 

“The  way  you  guys  built  this 
thing,”  he  answered,  “if  I got  lost 
the  galaxy  would  just  have  to  shift 


itself  around  to  get  me  back  on 
plot.” 

There  was  an  unconscious  arro- 
gance 'hidden  in  that  answer,  but  no 
one  marked  it  at  the  time.  It  was 
not  the  hour  for  suspicions. 

He  climbed  into  the  twelve-foot 
tall  control  suit  that  with  his  sepa- 
rate living  tank  were  the  main  com- 
ponents of  the  John  Paul  Jones  and 
took  off.  Up  in  orbit,  he  spent  some 
thirty-two  hours  testing  to  make 
sure  all  the  several  thousand  other 
component  parts  were  responding 
properly.  Then  he  left  the  solar  sys- 
tem. 

He  clumped  together  his  com- 
ponents, made  his  first  shift  to  orbit 
Procyon  — and  from  there  com- 
menced his  explorations  of  the  stars. 
In  the  next  nine  weeks,  he  ac- 
cumulated literally  amazing  amounts 
of  new  information  about  the  neai- 
by  stars  and  their  solar  systems. 
And  — this  is  an  even  better  index 
of  his  success  — located  four  new 
worlds  on  which  men  could  step 
with  never  a spacesuit  or  even  a 
water  canteen  to  sustain  them. 
Worlds  so  like  Earth  in  gravity, 
atmosphere  and  even  flora  and 
fauna,  that  they  could  be  colonized 
tomorrow. 

Those  were  his  first  four  worlds. 
On  the  fifth  he  encountered  his  fate 
— a fate  for  which  he  was  uncon- 
sciously ripe. 

The  fact  was  the  medical  men  and 
psychologists  had  overlooked  a fac- 
tor — a factor  having  to  do  with 
the  effect  of  Harry’s  official  John 
Paul  Jones  self  upon  his  entirely 
human  personal  self.  And  over  nine 
weeks  this  effect  changed  Harry 


IN  THE  BONE 


141 


witihout  his  ever  having  suspected 
it. 

You  see,  nothing  seemed  barred 
to  him.  He  could  cross  light-years 
by  touching  a few  buttons.  He  could 
send  a sensing  element  into  the 
core  of  the  hottest  star,  into  the 
most  poisonous  planetary  atmo- 
spheres or  crushing  gravities,  to  look 
around  as  if  he  were  down  there  in 
person.  From  orbit,  he  could  crack 
open  a mountain,  burn  off  a forest 
or  vaporize  a section  of  icecap  in 
search  of  information  just  by  tapping 
the  energy  of  a nearby  sun.  And 
so,  subtly,  the  unconscious  arrogance 
bom  during  two  years  of  training, 
that  should  have  been  noted  in  him 
at  take-off  from  Earth,  emerged 
and  took  him  over  . — until  he  felt 
that  there  was  nothing  he  could  not 
do;  that  all  things  must  give  way- to 
him;  that  he  was,  in  effect,  master 
of  the  universe. 

The  day  may  come  when  a man 
like  Harry  Brennan  may  hold  such 
a belief  and  be  justified.  But  not 
yet.  On  the  fifth  Earthlike  world 
he  discovered  — World  1242  in  his 
records  — Harry  encountered  the 
proof  that  his  belief  was  unjustified. 

II 

The  .world  was  one  which,  from 
orbit,  seemed  to  be  the  best  of 
all  the  planets  which  he  had  dis- 
covered were  suitable  for  human 
settlement;  and  he  was  about  to  go 
down  to  its  surface  personally  in  the 
control-suit,  when  his  instruments 
picked  out  something  already  down 
there. 

It  was  a squat,  metallic  pyramid 


about  the  size  of  a four-plex  apart- 
ment building;  and  it  was  radiating 
on  a number  of  interesting  frequen- 
cies. Around  its  base  there  was  me- 
chanical movement  and  an  area  of 
cleared  ground.  Further  out,  in  the 
native  forest,  were  treaded  vehicles 
taking  samples  of  the  soil,  rock  and 
vegetation. 

Harry  had  been  trained  for  all  con- 
ceivable situations,  including  an  en- 
counter with  other  intelligent,  space- 
going life.  Automatically,  he  struck 
a specific  button,  and  immediately 
a small  torpedo-shape  leaped  away 
to  shift  through  alternate  space  and 
back  to  Earth  with  the  information 
so  far  obtained.  And  a pale,  thin 
beam  reached  up  and  out  from  the 
pyramid  below.  Harry’s  emergency 
messenger  component  ceased  to  ex- 
ist. 

Shaken,  but  not  yet  really  wor- 
ried, Harry  struck  back  instantly 
with  all  the  power  his  official  self 
could  draw  from  the  GO-type  sun, 
nearby. 

The  power  was  funnelled  by  some 
action  below,  directly  into  the  pyra- 
mid itself;  and  it  vanished  there  as 
indifferently  as  the  single  glance  of  a 
sunbeam  upon  a leaf. 

Harry’s  mind  woke  suddenly  to 
some  understanding  of  what  he  had 
encountered.  He  reached  for  the  con- 
trols to  send  the  John  Paul  Jones 
shifting  into  the  alternate  universe 
and  away. 

His  hands  never  touched  the  con- 
trols. From  the  pyramid  below,  a 
blue  lance  of  light  reached  up  to 
paralyze  him,  select  the  controlsuit 
from  among  the  other  components 
and  send  it  tumbling  to  the  plane- 


142 


IF 


tary  surface  below  like  a swatted 
insect. 

But  the  suit  had  been  designed 
to  protect  its  occupant,  whether  he 
himself  was  operative  or  not.  At  fif- 
teen hundred  feet,  the  drag  chute 
broke  free,  looking  like  a silver 
cloth  candle-snuffer  in  the  sunlight; 
and  at  five  hundred  feet  the  retro- 
rockets  cut  in.  The  suit  tumbled  to 
earth  among  some  trees  two  kilo- 
meters from  the  pyramid,  with 
Harry  inside  bruised,  but  released 
from  his  paralysis. 

From  the  pyramid,  a jagged  arm 
of  something  like  white  lightning 
lashed  the  ground  as  far  as  the  suit, 
and  the  suit’s  outer  surface  glowed 
cherry-red.  Inside,  the  temperature 
suddenly  shot  up  fifty  degrees;  in- 
stinctively Harry  hit  the  panic  button 
available  to  him  inside  the  suit. 

The  suit  split  down  the  center 
like  an  overcooked  frankfurter  and 
spat  Harry  out;  he  rolled  among  the 
brush  and  fernlike  ground  cover, 
six  or  seven  meters  from  the  suit. 

From  the  distant  pyramid,  the 
lightning  lashed  the  suit,  break- 
ing it  up.  The  headpiece  rolled 
drunkenly  aside,  turning  the  dark 
gape  of  its  interior  toward  Harry 
like  the  hollow  of  an  empty  skull. 
In  the  dimness  of  that  hollow  Harry 
saw  the  twinkle  of  his  control  but- 
tons. 

The  lightning  vanished.  A yellow 
lightness  filled  the  air  about  Harry 
and  the  dismembered  suit.  There  was 
a strange  quivering  to  the  yellow- 
ness; and  Harry  half  smelled,  half 
tasted  the  sudden,  flatbite  of  ozone. 
In  the  headpiece  a button  clicked 


without  being  touched;  and  the  suit 
speaker,  still  radio-connected  with 
the  recording  tank  in  orbit,  spoke 
aloud  in  Harry’s  voice. 

“Orbit  . . .”  it  said.  “.  . . into  . . . 
going  ...” 

These  were,  in  reverse  order,  the 
last  three  words  Harry  had  recorded 
before  sighting  the  pyramid.  Now, 
swiftly  gaining  speed,  the  speaker  be- 
gan to  recite  backwards,  word  for 
word,  everything  Harry  had  said  in- 
to^ it  in  nine  weeks.  Faster  it  went, 
and  faster,  until  it  mounted  to  a 
chatter,  a gabble,  and  finally  a whine 
pushing  against  the  upper  limits  of 
Harry’s  auditory  register. 

Suddenly,  it  stopped. 

The  little  clearing  about  Harry 
was  full  of  silence.  Only  the  odd  and 
distant  creaking  of  something  that 
might  have  been  a rubbing  branch 
or  an  alien  insect,  came  to  Harry’s 
ears.  Then  the  speaker  spoke  once 
more. 

“Animal  . . .”  it  said  flatly  in 
Harry’s  calm,  recorded  voice  and 
went  on  to  pick  further  words  from 
the  recordings,  “.  . . beast.  You  . . . 
were  an  animal  . . . wrapped  in  . . . 
made  clothing.  I have  stripped  you 
back  to  . . . animal  again.  Live, 
beast  ...” 

Then  the  yellowness  went  out  of 
the  air  and  the  taste  of  ozone  with 
it.  The  headpiece  of  the  dismembered 
suit  grinned,  empty  as  old  bones  in 
the  sunlight.  Harry  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  ran  wildly  away  through 
the  trees  and  brush.  He  ran  in  panic 
and  utter  fear,  his  lungs  gasping,  his 
feet  pounding  the  alien  earth,  until 
the  earth,  the  trees,  the  sky  itself 
swam  about  him  from  exhaustion; 


IN  THE  BONE 


143 


and  he  fell  tumbling  to  earth  and 
away  into  the  dark  haven  of  un- 
consciousness. 

When  he  woke,  it  was  night,  and 
he  could  not  quite  remember 
where  he  was  or  why.  His  thoughts 
seemed  numb  and  unimportant.  But 
he  was  cold,  so  he  blundered  about 
until  he  found  the  standing  half- 
trunk of  a lighting-blasted  tree  and 
crept  into  the  burned  hollow  of  its 
interior,  raking  frill-edged,  alien 
leaves  about  him  out  of  some  half- 
forgotten  instinct,  until  his  own  body- 
warmth  in  the  leaves  formed  a co- 
coon of  comfort  about  him;  and  he 
slept. 

From  then  on  began  a period  in 
which  nothing  was  very  clear.  It  was 
as  if  his  mind  had  huddled  itself 
away  somehow  like  a wounded  ani- 
mal and  refused  to  think.  There 
was  no  past  or  future,  only  the  end- 
less now.  If  now  was  warm,  it  had 
always  been  warm;  if  dark  — it  had 
always  been  dark.  He  learned  to 
smell  water  from  a distance  and  go 
to  it  when  he  was  thirsty.  He  put 
small  things  in  his  mouth  to  taste 
them.  If  they  tasted  good  he  ate 
them.  If  he  got  sick  afterwards,  he 
did  not  eat  them  again. 

Gradually,  blindly,  the  world 
about  him  began  to  take  on  a cer- 
tain order.  He  came  to  know  where 
there  were  plants  with  portions  he 
could  eat,  where  there  were  small 
creatures  he  could  catch  and  pull 
apart  and  eat  and  where  there  was 
water. 

He  did  not  know  how  lucky  he 
was  in  the  sheer  chance  of  finding 
flora  and  fauna  on  an  alien  world 


that  was  edible  — let  alone  nourish- 
ing. He  did  not  realize  that  he  had 
come  down  on  a plateau  in  the 
tropical  highlands,  with  little  vari- 
ation in  day  and  night  temperature 
and  no  large  native  predators  which 
might  have  attacked  him. 

None  of  this,  he  knew.  Nor  would 
it  have  made  any  difference  to  him 
if  he  had,  for  the  intellectual  center 
of  his  brain  had  gone  on  vacation,  so 
to  speak,  and  refused  to  be  called 
back.  He  was,  in  fact,  a victim  of 
severe  psychological  shock.  The 
shock  of  someone  who  had  come  to 
feel  himself  absolute  master  of  a 
universe  and  who  then,  in  a few 
short  seconds,  had  been  cast  down 
from  that  high  estate  by  something 
or  someone  inconceivably  greater,  in- 
to the  state  of  a beast  of  the  field. 

But  still,  he  could  not  be  a true 
beast  of  ^e  field,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  his  intellectual  processes  had 
momentarily  abdicated.  His  percep- 
tive abilities  still  worked.  His  eyes 
could  not  help  noting,  even  if  in- 
curiously, the  progressive  drying  of 
the  vegetation,  the  day-by-day  shift- 
ing in  the  points  of  setting  and  rising 
of  the  sun.  Slowly,  instinctively,  the 
eternal  moment  that  held  him 
stretched  and  lengthened  until  he  be- 
gan to  perceive  divisions  within  it 
— a difference  between  now  and 
was,  between  now  and  will  be. 

Ill 

The  day  came  at  last  when  he  saw 
himself. 

A hundred  times  he  had  crouched 
by  the  water  to  drink  and,  lowering 
his  lips  to  its  surface,  seen  color  and 

IF 


144 


IN  THE  BONE 


145 


shape  rising  to  meet  him.  The  hun- 
dredth and  something  time,  he  check- 
ed, a few  inches  above  the  liquid 
plane,  staring  at  what  he  saw. 

For  several  long  seconds  it  made 
no  sense  to  him.  Then,  at  first 
slowly,  then  with  a rush  like  pain 
flooding  back  on  someone  rousing 
from  the  anesthesia  of  unconscious- 
ness, he  recognized  what  he  saw. 

Those  were  eyes  at  which  he  star- 
ed, sunken  and  dark-circled  under  a 
dirty  tangle  of  hair.  That  was  a nose 
jutting  between  gaunt  and  sunken 
cheeks  above  a mouth,  and  there  was 
a chin  naked  only  because  once  an 
ultrafine  laser  had  burnt  out  the 
thousand  and  one  roots  of  the  beard 
that  grew  on  it.  That  was  a man  he 
saw  — himself. 

He  jerked  back  like  someone  who 
has  come  face-to-face  with  the  devil. 
But  he  returned  eventually,  because 
he  was  thirsty,  to  drink  and  see  him- 
self again.  And  so,  gradually,  he  got 
used  to  the  sight  of  himself. 

So  it  was  that  memory  started  to 
return  to  him.  But  it  did  not  come 
back  quickly  or  all  at  once.  It  re- 
turned instead  by  jerks  and  sudden, 
partial  revelations  — until  finally 
the  whole  memory  of  what  had  hap- 
pened was  back  in  his  conscious  mind 
again. 

But  he  was  really  not  a man  again. 

He  was  still  essentially  what  the 
operator  of  the  pyramid  had  broken 
him  down  into.  He  was  still  an  ani- 
mal. Only  the  memory  and  imagin- 
ings of  a man  had  returned  to  live 
like  a prisoner  in  a body  that  went 
on  reacting  and  surviving  in  the  bes- 
tial way  it  had  come  to  regard  as 
natural. 


But  his  animal  peace  was  broken. 
For  his  imprisoned  mind  worked 
now.  With  the  controlsuit  broken  up, 
— he  had  returned  to  the  spot  of 
its  destruction  many  times,  to  gaze 
beastlike  at  the  rusting  parts  — his 
mind  knew  he  was  a prisoner,  alone 
on  this  alien  world  until  he  died.  To 
know  that  was  not  so  bad,  but  re- 
membering this  much  meant  remem- 
bering also  the  existence  of  the  some- 
one or  something  that,  had  made  him 
a prisoner  here. 

The  whoever  it  was  who  was  in 
the  pyramid. 

That  the  pyramid  might  have  been 
an  automated,  mechanical  device 
never  entered  his  mind  for  a mo- 
ment. There  had  been  a personal, 
directed,  living  viciousness  behind 
the  announcement  that  had  con- 
demned him  to  live  as  a beast.  No, 
in  that  blank-walled,  metallic  struc- 
ture, whose  treaded  mechanical  ser- 
vants still  prospected  through  the 
woods,  there  was  something  alive  — 
something  that  could  treat  the  awe- 
some power  of  a solar  tap  as  a hu- 
man treated  the  attack  of  a mos- 
quito — but  something  living.  Some 
being.  Some  Other,  who  lived  in  the 
pyramid,  moving,  breathing,  eating 
and  gloating  — or  worse  yet,  entire- 
ly forgetful  of  what  he  had  done  to 
Harry  Brennan. 

And  now  that  he  knew  that  the 
Other  was  there,  Harry  began  to 
dream  of  him  nightly.  At  first,  in 
his  dreams,  Harry  whimpered  with 
fear  each  time  the  dark  shape  he 
pursued  seemed  about  to  turn  and 
show  its  face.  But  slowly,  hatred 
came  to  grow  inside  and  then  out- 
side his  fear.  Unbearable  that  Harry 


146 


IF 


should  never  know  the  face  of  his 
destroyer.  Lying  curled  in  his  nest 
of  leaves  under  the  moonless,  star- 
brilliant  sky,  he  snarled,  thinking  of 
his  deprivation. 

Then  hate  came  to  strengthen  him 
in  the  daylight  also.  From  the  be- 
ginning he  had  avoided  the  pyramid, 
as  a wild  coyote  avoids  the  farm- 
yard where  he  was  once  shot  by 
the  farmer.  But  now,  day  after  day, 
Harry  circled  closer  to  the  alien 
shape.  From  the  beginning  he  had 
run  and  hidden  from  the  treaded 
prospecting  machines.  But  now, 
slowly,  he  grew  bolder,  standing 
close  enough  at  last  to  touch  them 
as  they  passed.  And  he  found  that 
they  paid  no  attention  to  him.  No 
attention  at  all. 

He  came  to  ignore  them  in  turn, 
and  day  by  day  he  ventured 
closer  to  the  pyramid.  Until  the 
morning  came  when  he  lay,  silently 
snarling,  behind  a bush,  looking  out 
across  the  tread-trampled  space  that 
separated  him  from  the  nearest  cop- 
per-colored face  of  the  pyramid. 

The  space  was  roughly  circular, 
thirty  meters  across,  broken  only 
by  a small  stream  which  had  been 
diverted  to  loop  inwards  toward  the 
pyramid  before  returning  to  its  orig- 
inal channel.  In  the  bight  of  the 
loop  a machine  like  a stork  straddled 
the  artificial  four-foot-wide  channel, 
dipping  a pair  of  long  necks  with 
tentacle-clustered  heads  into  the 
water  at  intervals.  Sometimes  Harry 
could  see  nothing  in  the  tentacles 
when  they  came  up.  Occasionally 
they  carried  some  small  water  crea- 
ture which  they  deposited  in  a tank. 


Making  a perfect  circle  about  the 
tramped  area,  so  that  the  stork  like 
machine  was  guarded  within  them, 
was  an  open  fence  of  slender  wands 
set  upright  in  the  earth,  far  enough 
apart  for  any  of  the  machines  that 
came  and  went  to  the  forest  to  pass 
between  any  two  of  them.  T^ere 
seemed  to  be  nothing  connecting 
the  wands,  and  nothing  happened 
to  the  prospecting  machines  as  they 
passed  through  — but  the  very  pur- 
poselessness of  the  wands  filled 
Harry  with  uneasiness. 

It  was  not  until  after  several  days 
of  watching  that  he  had  a chance  to 
see  a small  native  animal,  frightened 
by  something  in  the  woods  behind  it, 
attempt  to  bolt  across  a comer  of 
the  clearing. 

As  it  passed  between  two  of  the 
wands  there  was  a waveriness  in  the 
air  between  them.  The  small  animal 
leaped  high,  came  down  and  lay  still. 
It  did  not  move  after  that,  and  later 
in  the  day,  Harry  saw  the  indifferent 
treads  of  one  of  the  prospecting  ma- 
chines bury  it  in  the  trampled  earth 
in  passing. 

That  evening,  Harry  brought  sev- 
eral captive,  small  animals  bound 
with  grass  up  to  the  wand  line  and 
thrust  them  through,  one  by  one  at 
different  spots.  All  died. 

The  next  night  he  tried  pushing 
a captive  through  a small  trench 
scooped  out  so  that  the  creature 
passed  the  killing  line  below  ground 
level.  But  this  one  died  also.  For 
several  days  he  was  baffled.  Then 
he  tried  running  behind  a slow- 
moving  machine  as  it  returned  and 
tying  a small  animal  to  it  with  grass. 

For  a moment  as  the  front  of 


IN  THE  BONE 


147 


the  machine  passed  through,  he 
thought  the  little  animal  would  live. 
But  then,  as  the  back  of  the  machine 
passed  the  line,  it,  too,  died. 

Snarling,  Harry  paced  around  out- 
side the  circle  in  the  brush  until  the 
sun  set  and  stars  filled  the  moonless 
sky. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  he 
probed  every  gap  in  the  wand- 
fence,  but  found  no  safe  way  through 
it.  Finally,  he  came  to  concentrate 
on  the  two  points  at  which  the  di- 
verted stream  entered  and  left  the 
circle  to  flow  beneath  the  storklike 
machine. 

He  studied  this  without  really 
knowing  what  he  was  seeking.  He 
did  not  even  put  his  studying  into 
words.  Vaguely,  he  knew  that  the 
water  went  in  and  the  water  came 
out  again  unchanged;  and  he  also 
wished  to  enter  and  come  out  safe- 
ly. Then,  one  day,  studying  the 
stream  and  the  machine,  he  noticed 
that  a small  creature  plucked  from 
the  water  by  the  storklike  neck’s 
mass  of  tentacles  was  still  wriggling. 

The  evening,  at  twilight,  while 
there  was  still  light  to  see,  he  waded 
up  the  two-foot  depth  of  the  stream 
to  the  point  where  the  killing  line 
cut  across  its  watery  surface  and 
pushed  some  more  of  his  little  ani- 
mals toward  the  line  underwater. 

Two  of  the  three  surfaced  imme- 
diately, twitched  and  floated  on 
limply,  to  be  plucked  from  the  water 
and  cast  aside  on  the  ground  by 
the  storklike  machine.  But  the  third 
swam  on  several  strokes  before  sur- 
facing and  came  up  living  to  scram- 
ble ashore,  race  for  the  forest  and 


be  killed  by  wands  further  around 
the  circle. 

Harry  investigated  the  channel  be- 
low the  killing  line.  There  was  water 
there  up  to  his  mid-thigh,  plenty  to 
cover  him  completely.  He  crouched 
down  in  the  water  and  took  a deep 
breath. 

Ducking  below  the  surface,  he 
pulled  himself  along  with  his  finger- 
tips, holding  himself  close  to  the 
bottom.  He  moved  in  as  far  as  the 
tentacled  ends.  These*  grabbed  at 
him,  but  could  not  reach  far  enough 
back  to  touch  him.  He  saw  that  they 
came  within  a few  inches  of  the 
gravel  bottom. 

He  began  to  need  air.  He  backed 
carefully  out  and  rose  above  the 
water,  gasping.  After  a while  his 
hard  breathing  stopped,  and  he  sat 
staring  at  the  water  for  a long  while. 
When  it  was  dark,  he  left. 

The  next  day  he  came  and  crept 
underwater  to  the  grabbing  area  of 
the  storklike  machine  again.  He 
scooped  out  several  handfuls  of  the 
gravel  from  under  the  place  where 
the  arms  grabbed,  before  he  felt  a 
desperate  need  for  .air  and  had  to 
withdraw.  But  that  day  began  his 
labors. 

IV 

Four  days  later  the  bottom  under 
the  grasping  tentacles  was 
scooped  out  to  an  additional  two 
feet  of  depth.  And  the  fifth  twilight 
after  that,  he  pulled  himself,  dripping 
and  triumphant,  up  out  of  the  bend 
of  the  diverted  stream  inside  the 
circle  of  the  killing  wands. 

He  rested  and  then  went  to  the 


148 


IF 


pyramid,  approaching  it  cautiously 
and  sidelong  like  a suspicious  ani- 
mal. There  was  a door  in  the  side  he 
approached  through  which  he  had 
seen  the  prospecting  machines  trun- 
dle in  and  out.  In  the  dimness  he 
could  not  see  it;  and  when  he 
touched  the  metallic  side  of  the  struc- 
ture, his  fingers,  grimed  and  tough- 
ened from  scrabbling  in  the  dirt,  told 
him  little.  But  his  nose,  beast-sen- 
sitive now,  located  and  traced  the 
outline  of  the  almost  invisible  crack 
around  the  door  panel  by  its  reek 
of  earth  and  lubricant. 

He  settled  down  to  wait.  An  hour 
later,  one  of  the  machines  came 
back.  He  jumped  up,  ready  to  fol- 
low it  in;  but  the  door  opened  just 
before  it  and  closed  the  minute  it 
was  inside  — nor  was  there  any  room 
to  squeeze  in  beside  it.  He  hunkered 
down,  disappointed,  snarling  a little 
to  himself. 

He  stayed  until  dawn  and  watched 
several  more  machines  enter  and 
leave.  But  there  was  no  room  to 
squeeze  inside,  even  with  the  small- 
est of  them. 

During  the  next  week  or  so  he 
watched  the  machines  enter  and  leave 
nightly.  He  tied  one  of  his  small  ani- 
mals to  an  entering  machine  and 
saw  it  pass  through  the  entrance  alive 
and  scamper  out  again  with  the 
next  machine  that  left.  And  every 
night  his  rage  increased.  Then,  word- 
lessly, one  daytime  after  he  had  seen 
a machine  deep  in  the  woods  lurch 
and  tilt  as  its  tread  passed  over  a 
rock,  inspiration  took  him. 

That  night  he  carried  through  the 
water  with  him  several  canteloupe- 
sized  stones.  When  the  first  machine 


came  back  to  the  pyramid,  in  the 
moment  in  which  the  door  opened 
before  it,  he  pushed  one  of  the  rocks 
before  the  right-hand  tread.  The  ma- 
chine, unable  to  stop,  mounted  the 
rock  with  its  right  tread,  tilted  to 
the  left  and  struck  against  that  side 
of  the  entrance. 

It  checked,  backed  off  and  put 
out  an  arm  with  the  grasping  end  to 
remove  the  rock.  Then  it  entered 
the  opening.  But  Harry  was  already 
before  it,  having  slipped  through 
while  the  door  was  still  up  and  the 
machine,  busy  pulling  the  stone 
aside. 

He  plunged  into  a corridor  of 
darkness,  full  of  clankings  and 
smells.  A little  light  from  the  open- 
ing behind  him  showed  him  a fur- 
ther, larger  chamber  where  other 
machines  stood  parked.  He  ran 
toward  them. 

Long  before  he  reached  them,  the 
door  closed  behind  him,  and  he  was 
in  pitch  darkness.  But  the  clanking 
of  the  incoming  machine  was  close 
behind  him,  and  the  adrenalinized 
memory  of  a wild  beast  did  not  fail 
him.  He  ran,  hands-outstretched,  di- 
rectly into  the  side  of  the  parked 
machine  at  which  he  had  aimed  and 
clambered  up  on  it.  The  machine  en- 
tering behind  him  clanked  harmless- 
ly past  him  and  stopped  moving. 

He  climbed  cautiously  down  in 
the  impenetrable  darkness.  He  could 
see  nothing;  but  the  new,  animal 
sensitivity  of  his  nose  offered  a sub- 
stitute for  vision.  He  moved  like  a 
hunting  dog  around  the  chamber, 
sniffing  and  touching;  and  slowly 
a clear  picture  of  it  and  its  treaded 
occupants  built  up  in  his  mind. 


IN  THE  BONE 


149 


He  was  still  at  this  when  suddenly 
a door  he  had  not  seen  opened  al- 
most in  his  face.  He  had  just  time 
to  leap  backwards  as  a smaller  ma- 
chine with  a boxlike  body  and  a 
number  of  upward-thrusting  arms 
entered,  trundled  to  the  machine 
that  had  just  come  back  and  began 
to  relieve  the  prospecting  machine 
of  its  sample  box,  replacing  it  with 
the  one  it  carried  itself. 

This  much,  in  the  dim  light  from 
the  open  door,  Harry  was  able  to 
see.  But  then,  the  smaller  machine 
turned  back  toward  the  doorway; 
and  Harry,  waking  to  his  opportuni- 
ty, ducked  through  ahead  of  it. 

He  found  himself  in  a corridor 
dimly  lit  by  a luminescent  strip 
down  the  center  of  its  ceiling.  The 
corridor  was  wide  enough  for  the 
box-collecting  machine  to  pass  him; 
and,  in  fact,  it  rolled  out  around  him 
as  he  shrank  back  against  one  metal 
wall.  It  went  on  down  the  corridor, 
and  he  followed  it  into  a larger  room 
with  a number  of  machines,  some 
mobile,  some  not,  under  a ceiling  lit 
as  the  corridor  had  been  with  a 
crossing  transluscent  strip. 

In  this  area  all  the  machines  avoid- 
ed each  other  — and  him.  They 
were  busy  with  each  other  and 
at  other  incomprehensible  duties. 
Hunched  and  tense,  hair  erect  on 
the  back  of  his  neck  and  nostrils 
spread  wide,  Harry  moved  through 
them  to  explore  other  rooms  and 
corridors  that  opened  off  this  one. 
It  took  him  some  little  time;  but  he 
discovered  that  they  were  all  on  a 
level,  and  there  was  nothing  but  ma- 
chines in  any  of  them.  He  found 


two  more  doors  with  shallow  steps 
leading  up  to  them,  but  these  would 
not  open  for  him;  and  though  he 
watched  by  one  for  some  time,  no 
machine  went  up  the  steps  and 
through  it. 

He  began  to  be  conscious  of  thirst 
and  hunger.  He  made  his  way  back 
to  the  door  leading  to  the  chamber 
where  the  prospecting  machines  were 
parked.  To  his  surprise,  it  opened 
as  he  approached  it.  He  slipped 
through  into  darkness. 

Immediately,  the  door  closed  be- 
hind him;  and  sudden  panic  grabbed 
him,  when  he  found  he  could  not 
open  it  from  this  side.  Then,  self- 
possession  returned  to  him. 

By  touch,  smell  and  memory,  he 
made  his  way  among  the  parked  ma- 
chines and  down  the  corridor  to  the 
outside  door.  To  his  gratification,  this 
also  opened  when  he  came  close.  He 
slipped  through  into  cool,  fresh 
outer  air  and  a sky  already  graying 
with  dawn.  A few  moments  later, 
wet  but  free,  he  was  back  in  the 
woods  again. 

From  then  on,  each  night  he  re- 
turned. He  found  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  do  more  than  put  any  size- 
able object  before  a returning  ma- 
chine. It  would  stop  to  clear  the  path, 
and  he  could  enter  ahead  of  it.  Then, 
shortly  after  he  was  inside,  a box- 
collecting machine  would  open  the 
inner  door. 

Gradually,  his  fear  of  the  machines 
faded.  He  came  to  hold  them  in  a 
certain  contempt.  They  always  did 
the  same  thing  in  the  same  situ- 
ation, and  it  was  easy  to  trick  or 
outmaneuver  them. 

But  the  two  inner  doors  of  the 

IF 


150 


machine  area  with  the  steps  would 
not  open  to  him;  and  he  knew  the 
upper  parts  of  the  pyramid  were  still 
unexplored  by  him.  He  sniffed  at 
the  cracks  of  these  door,  and  a 
scent  came  through  — not  of  lubri- 
cating medium  and  metal  alone, 
but  of  a different  musky  odor  that 
raised  the  hairs  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  again.  He  snarled  at  the  doors: 

He  went  back  to  exploring  min- 
utely the  machine  level.  The 
sample  boxes  from  the  prospecting 
machines,  he  found,  were  put  on 
conveyorbelt-like  strips  that  floated 
up  on  thin  air  through  openings  in 
the  ceiling  — but  the  openings  were 
too  small  for  him  to  pass  through. 
But  he  discovered  something  else. 
One  day  he  came  upon  one  of  the 
machines  taking  a grille  off  the  face 
of  one  of  the  immobile  devices.  It 
carried  the  grille  away,  and  he  ex- 
plored the  opening  that  had  been 
revealed.  It  was  the  entrance  to  a 
tunnel  or  duct  leading  upward;  and 
it  was  large  enough  to  let  him  enter 
it.  Air  blew  silently  from  it;  and  the 
air  was  heavy  with  the  musky  odor 
he  had  smelled  around  the  doors 
that  did  not  open. 

The  duct  ,tempted  him,  but  fear 
held  him  back.  The  machine  came 
back  and  replaced  the  grille;  and 
he  noticed  that  it  fitted  into  place 
with  a little  pressure  from  the  out- 
side, top  and  bottom.  After  the  ma- 
chine had  left  he  pressed,  and  the 
grille  fell  out  into  his  hands. 

After  a long  wait,  he  ventured 
timorously  into  the  tube  — but  a 
sudden  sound  like  heavy  breathing 
mixed  with  a wave  of  a strong, 


musky  odor  came  at  him.  He  backed 
out  in  panic,  fled  the  pyramid  and 
did  not  come  back  for  two  days. 

When  he  came  back,  the  grille  was 
again  neatly  in  place.  He  removed  it 
and  sat  a long  time  getting  his  cour- 
age up.  Finally,  he  put  the  grille  up 
high  out  of  reach  of  the  machine 
which  had  originally  removed  it 
and  crawled  into  the  duct. 

He  crept  up  the  tube  at  an  angle 
into  darkness.  His  eyes  were  useless, 
but  the  musky  odor  came  strongly 
at  him.  Soon,  he  heard  sounds. 

There  was  an  occasional  ticking, 
then  a thumping  or  shuffling  sound. 
Finally,  after  he  had  crawled  a long 
way  up  through  the  tube,  there  was 
a sound  like  a heavy  puffing  or 
hoarse  breathing.  It  was  the  sound 
that  had  accompanied  the  strength- 
ening of  the  musky  odor  once  be- 
fore; and  this  time  the  scent  came 
strong  again. 

He  lay,  almost  paralyzed  with  ter- 
ror in  the  tube,  as  the  odor  grew  in 
his  nostrils.  He  could  not  move  un- 
til sound  and  scent  had  retreated. 
As  soon  as  they  had,  he  wormed  his 
way  backward  down  to  the  lower 
level  and  freedom,  replaced  the 
grille  and  fled  for  the  outside  air, 
once  again. 

But  once  more,  in  time,  he  came 
back.  Eventually  returned  to  explore 
the  whole  network  of  tubes  to  which 
the  one  he  had  entered  connected. 
Many  of  the  branching  tubes  were 
too  small  for  him  to  enter,  and  the 
biggest  tube  he  could  find  led  to 
another  grille  from  which  the  musky- 
smelling  air  was  blasted  with  force. 

Clearly  it  was  the  prime  mover 
for  the  circulation  of  air  through 


IN  THE  BONE 


151 


the  exhaust  half  of  the  pyramid’s 
ventilating  system.  Harry  did  not 
reason  it  out  to  himself  in  those  in- 
tellectual terms,  but  he  grasped  the 
concept  wordlessly  and  went  back 
to  exploring  those  smaller  tubes  that 
he  could  crawl  into. 

These,  he  found,  terminated  in 
grilles  set  in  their  floors  through 
which  he  could  look  down  and  catch 
a glimpse  of  some  chamber  or  other. 
What  he  saw  was  mainly  incompre- 
hensible. There  were  a number  of 
corridors,  a number  of  what  could 
be  rooms  containing  fixed  or  mova- 
ble objects  of  various  sizes  and 
shapes.  Some  of  them  could  be  the 
equivalent  of  chairs  or  beds  — but 
if  so,  they  were  scaled  for  a being 
plainly  larger  than  himself.  The 
lighting  was  invariably  the  low-key 
illumination  he  had  encountered  in 
the  lower,  machine  level  of  the  pyra- 
mid, supplied  by  the  single  translu- 
cent strip  running  across  the  ceil- 
ing. 

Occasionally,  from  one  grille  or 
another,  he  heard  in  the  distance  the 
heavy  sound  of  breathing,  among 
other  sounds,  and  smelled  more 
strongly  the  musky  odor.  But  for 
more  than  a week  of  surreptitious 
visits  to  the  pyramid,  he  watched 
through  various  grilles  without  see- 
ing anything  living. 

V 

However,  a day  finally  came 
when  he  was  crouch^,  star- 
ing down  into  a circular  room  con- 
taining what  might  be  a bed  shape, 
several  chair  shapes  and  a number 
of  other  fixed  shapes  with  variously 


spaced  and  depthed  indentations  in 
their  surfaces.  In.  a far  edge  of  the 
circular  room  was  a narrow  alcove, 
the  walls  of  which  were  filled  with 
ranked  indentations,  among  which 
several  lights  of  different  colors 
winked  and  glowed. 

Suddenly,  the  dim  illumination  of 
the  room  began  to  brighten.  The 
illumination  increased  rapidly,  so 
that  Harry  cringed  back  from  the 
grille,  lifting  a palm  to  .protect  his 
dimness-accustomed  eyes.  At  the 
same  moment,  he  heard  approaching 
the  sound  of  heavy  breathing  and 
sniffed  a sudden  increase  in  the 
musky  odor. 

He  froze.  Motionless  above  the 
grille,  he  stopped  even  his  breath- 
ing. He  would  have  stopped  his 
heart  if  he  could,  but  it  raced,  shak- 
ing his  whole  body  and  sounding 
its  rapid  beat  in  his  ears  until  he 
felt  the  noise  of  it  must  be  booming 
through  the  pyramid  like  a drum. 
But  there  was  no  sign  from  below 
that  this  was  so. 

Then,  sliding  into  sight  below  him, 
came  a massive  figure  on  a small 
platform  that  seemed  to  drift  with- 
out support  into  the  room. 

The  aperture  of  the  grille  was 
small.  Harry’s  viewpoint  was  cramp- 
ed and  limited,  looking  down  direct- 
ly from  overhead.  He  found  himself 
looking  down  onto  thick,  hairless 
brown-skinned  shoulders,  a thick 
neck  with  the  skin  creased  at  the 
back  and  a forward-sloping,  hairless 
brown  head,  egg-shaped  in  outline 
from  above,  with  the  point  forward. 

Foreshortened  below  the  head  and 
shoulders  was  a bulging  chinline 
with  something  like  a tusk  showing; 


152 


IF 


it  had  a squat,  heavy,  hairless,  brown 
body  and  thick  short  forearms  with 
stubby  claws  at  the  end  of  four- 
fingered hands.  There  was  some- 
thing walruslike  about  the  tusks  and 
the  hunching;  — and  the  musky  odor 
rose  sickeningly  into  Harry’s  human 
nostrils. 

The  platform  slid  level  with  the 
alcove,  which  was  too  narrow  for  it 
to  enter.  Breathing  hoarsely,  the 
heavy  figure  on  it  heaved  itself  sud- 
denly off  the  platform  into  the  al- 
cove, and  the  stubby  hands  moved 
over  the  pattern  of  indentations. 
Then,  it  turned  and  heaved  itself  out 
of  the  alcove,  onto  the  flat,  bed  sur- 
face adjoining.  Just  as  Harry’s  gaze 
began  to  get  a full-length  picture  of 
it,  the  illumination  below  went  out. 

Harry  was  left,  staring  dazzled  in- 
to darkness,  while  the  heavy  breath- 
ing and  the  sound  of  the  figure 
readjusting  itself  on  the  bed  surface 
came  up  to  his  ears.  After  a while, 
there  was  no  noise  but  the  breath- 
ing. But  Harry  did  not  dare  move. 
For  a long  time  he  held  his  cramped 
posture,  hardly  breathing  himself. 
Finally,  cautiously,  inch-by-inch,  he 
retreated  down  the  tube,  which  was 
too  small  to  let  him  turn  around. 
When  he  reached  the  larger  tubes,  he 
fled  for  the  outside  and  the  safety 
of  the  forest. 

The  next  day,  he  did  not  go  near 
the  pyramid.  Or  the  next.  Every 
time  he  thought  of  the  heavy,  brown 
figure  entering  the  room  below  the 
grille,  he  became  soaked  with  the 
clammy  sweat  of  a deep,  emotional 
terror.  He  could  understand  how  the 
Other  had  not  heard  him  or  seen 
him  up  behind  the  grille.  But  he 


could  not  understand  how  the  alien 
had  not  smelled  him. 

Slowly,  however,  he  came  to  ac- 
cept the  fact  that  the  Other  had  not. 
Possibly  the  Other  did  not  have  a 
sense  of  smell.  Possibly  . . . there 
was  no  end  to  the  possibilities.  The 
fact  was  that  the  Other  had  not 
smelled  Harry  — or  heard  him  — 
or  seen  him.  Harry  was  like  a rat 
in  the  walls  — unknown  because  he 
was  unsuspected. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  Harry  was 
once  more  prowling  around  back 
by  the  pyramid.  He  had  not  intended 
to  come  back,  but  his  hatred  drew 
him  like  the  need  of  a drug  addict 
for  the  drug  of  his  addiction.  He 
had  to  see  the  Other  again,  to  feed 
his  hate  more  surely.  He  had  to  look 
at  the  Other,  while  hating  the  alien, 
and  feel  the  wild  black  current  of 
his  emotions  running  toward  the 
brown  and  hairless  shape.  At  night, 
buried  in  his  nest  of  leaves,  Harry 
tossed  and  snarled  in  his  sleep, 
dreaming  of  the  small  stream  back- 
ing up  to  flood  the  interior  of  the 
pyramid,  and  the  Other  drowning 
— of  lighting  striking  the  pyramid 
and  fire  racing  through  it  — of  the 
Other  burning.  His  dreams  became 
so  full  of  rage  and  so  terrible  that 
he  woke,  twisting  and  with  the  few 
rags  of  clothing  that  still  managed 
to  cling  unnoticed  to  him,  soaked 
with  sweat. 

In  the  end,  he  went  back  into  the 
pyramid. 

Daily  he  went  back.  And  gradual- 
ly, it  came  to  the  point  where  he  was 
no  longer  fearful  of  seeing  the  Oth- 
er. Instead,  he  could  barely  endure 


IN  THE  BONE 


153 


the  search  and  the  waiting  at  the 
grilles  until  the  Other  came  into 
sight.  Meanwhile,  outside  the  pyra- 
mid in  the  forest,  the  frill-edged 
leaves  began  to  dry  and  wither  and 
drop.  The  little  stream  sank  in  its 
bed  — only  a few  inches,  but  enough 
so  that  Harry  had  to  dig  out  the 
bottom  of  the  streambed  under  the 
killing  barrier  in  order  to  pass  safely 
underwater  into  the  pyramid  area. 

One  day  he  noticed  that  there 
were  hardly  any  of  the  treaded  ma- 
chines out  taking  samples  in  the 
woods  any  more. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  the  pyramid 
through  the  woods,  when  the  reali- 
zation struck  him.  He  stopped  dead, 
freezing  in  midstride  like  a hunting 
dog.  Immediately,  there  flooded  in- 
to his  mind  the  memory  of  how  the 
parking  chamber  for  the  treaded  ma- 
chines, inside  the  base  of  the  pyra- 
mid, had  been  full  of  unmoving  ve- 
hicles during  his  last  few  visits. 

Immediately,  also,  he  realized  the 
significance  of  the  drying  leaves,  the 
dropping  of  the  water  level  of  the 
stream.  And  something  with  the  ur- 
gency of  a great  gong  began  to  ring 
and  ring  inside  him  like  the  pealing 
of  an  alarm  over  a drowning  city. 

Time  had  been,  when  there  had 
been  no  pyramid  here.  Time  was 
now,  with  the  year  fading  and  the 
work  of  the.  collecting  machines  al- 
most done.  Time  would  be,  when 
the  pyramid  might  leave. 

Taking  with  it  the  Other. 

He  began  to  run,  instinctively 
toward  the  pyramid.  But,  when  he 
came  within  sight  of  it,  he  stopped. 
For  a moment  he  was  torn  with  in- 
decision, an  emotional  maelstrom  of 


fear  and  hatred  all  whirling  together. 
Then,  he  went  on. 

He  emerged  a moment  later,  drip- 
ping, a fist-sized  rock  in 
each  hand,  to  stand  before  the 
closed  door  that  gave  the  machines 
entrance  to  the  pyramid.  He  stood 
staring  at  it,  in  broad  daylight.  He 
had  never  come  here  before  in  full 
daylight,  but  his  head  now  was  full 
of  madness.  Fury  seethed  in  him, 
but  there  was  no  machine  to  open 
the  door  for  him.  It  was  then  that 
the  fury  and  madness  in  him  might 
have  driven  him  to  pound  wildly 
on  the  door  with  his  stones  or  to 
wrench  off  one  of  the  necks  of  the 
storklike  machine  at  the  stream  and 
try  to  pry  the  door  open.  Any  of 
these  insane  things  he  might  have 
done  and  so  have  attracted  discovery 
and  the  awesome  power  of  the  ma- 
chinery and  killing  weapons  at  the 
command  of  the  Other.  Any  such 
thing  he  might  have  done  if  he  was 
simply  a man  out  of  his  head  with 
rage  — but  he  was  no  longer  a man. 

He  was  what  the  Other  had  made 
him,  an  animal,  although  with  a man 
locked  inside  him.  And  like  an  ani- 
mal, he  did  not  rave  or  rant,  any 
more  than  does  the  cat  at  the  mouse- 
hole,  or  the  wolf  waiting  for  the 
shepherd  to  turn  in  for  the  night.  In- 
stead, without  further  question,  the 
human  beast  that  had  been  Harry 
Brennan  — that  still  called  himself 
Harry  Brennan,  in  a little,  locked- 
away,  back  corner  of  its  mind  — 
dropped  on  his  haunches  beside  the 
door  and  hunkered  there,  panting 
lightly  in  the  sunlight  and  waiting. 
Four  hours  later,  as  the  sun  was 


154 


IF 


IN  THE  BONE 


155 


dropping  close  to  the  treetops,  a 
single  machine  came  trundling  out 
of  the  woods.  Harry  tricked  it  with 
one  of  his  stones  and,  still  carrying 
the  other,  ran  into  the  pyramid. 

He  waited  patiently  for  the  small 
collecting  machine  to  come  and 
empty  out  the  machine  returned 
from  outside,  then  dodged  ahead  of 
it,  when  it  came,  into  the  interior, 
lower  level  of  the  pyramid.  He  made 
his  way  calmly  to  the  grille  that 
gave  him  entrance  to  the  ventilating 
system,  took  out  the  grille  and  en- 
tered ^e  tube.  Once  in  the  system, 
he  crawled  through  the  maze  of 
ductwork,  until  he  came  at  last  to 
the  grille  overlooking  the  room  with 
the  alcove  and  the  rows  of  indenta- 
tions on  the  alcove  walls. 

When  he  looked  down  through  the 
grille,  it  was  completely  dark  below. 
He  could  hear  the  hoarse  breathing 
and  smell  the  musky  odor  of  the 
Other,  resting  or  perhaps  asleep,  on 
the  bed  surface.  Harry  lay  there 
for  a number  of  slow  minutes,  smell- 
ing and  listening.  Then  he  lifted  the 
second  rock  and  banged  with  it  upon 
the  grille. 

For  a second  there  was  nothing 
but  the  echoing  clang  of  the 
beaten  metal  in  the  darkness.  Then 
the  room  suddenly  blazed  with  light, 
and  Harry;  blinking  his  blinded  eyes 
against  the  glare,  finally  made  out 
the  figure  of  the  Other  rising  up- 
right upon  the  bed  surface.  Great, 
round,  yellow  eyes  in  a puglike  face 
with  a thick  upper  lip  wrinkled  over 
two  tusks  stared  up  through  the 
grille  at  Harry. 

The  lip  lifted,  and  a bubbling  roar 


burst  from  the  heavy  fat-looking 
shape  of  the  Other.  He  heaved  his 
round  body  off  the  bed  surface  and 
rolled,  waddling  across  the  floor  to 
just  below  the  grille. 

Reaching  up  with  one  blunt-claw- 
ed hand,  he  touched  the  grille,  and 
it  fell  to  the  floor  at  his  feet.  Left 
unguarded  in  the  darkness  of  the 
ductwork,  Harry  shrank  back.  But 
the  Other  straightened  up  to  his  full 
near  six-and-a-half  feet  of  height 
and  reached  up  into  the  ductwork. 
His  blunt  clawed  hand  fastened  on 
Harry  and  jerked.  Off  balance, 
Harry  came  tumbling  to  the  floor  of 
the  chamber. 

A completely  human  man  probably 
would  have  stiffened  up  and  broken 
both  arms,  if  not  his  neck,  in  such  a 
fall.  Harry,  animal-like,  attempted 
to  cling  to  the  shape  of  the  Other 
as  he  fell,  and  so  broke  the  impact 
of  his  landing.  On  the  floor,  he  let 
go  of  the  Other  and  huddled  away 
from  the  heavy  shape,  whimpering. 

The  Other  looked  down,  and  his 
round,  yellow  eyes  focused  on  the 
stone  Harry  had  clung  to  even 
through  his  fall.  The  Other  reached 
down  and  grasped  it,  and  Harry  gave 
it  up  like  a child  releasing  something 
he  has  been  told  many  times  not  to 
handle.  The  Other  made  another, 
lower-toned,  bubbling  roar  deep  in 
his  chest,  examining  the  rock.  ITien 
he  laid  it  carefully  aside  on  a low 
table  surface  and  turned  back  to 
stare  down  at  Harry. 

Harry  cringed  away  from  the  alien 
stare  and  huddled  into  himself,  as 
the  blunt  fingers  reached  down  to 
feel  some  of  the  rags  of  a shirt  that 
still  clung  about  his  shoulders. 


156 


IF 


The  Other  rumbled  interrogative- 
ly at  Harry.  Harry  hid  his  head. 
When  he  looked  up  again,  the  Other 
had  moved  over  to  a wall  at  the 
right  of  the  alcove  and  was  feeling 
about  in  some  indentations  there.  He 
bubbled  at  the  wall,  and  a second 
later  Harry’s  voice  sounded  eerily 
in  the  room. 

. . You  are  . . . the  one  1 . . . 
made  a beast  . . .” 

Harry  whimpered,  hiding  his  head 
again. 

“You  can’t  . . .”  said  Harry’s 
voice,  . . even  speak  now.  Is  . . . 
that  so  . . .” 

Harry  ventured  to  peek  upward 
out  of  his  folded  arms,  but  ducked 
his  head  again  at  the  sight  of  the 
cold,  yellow  eyes  staring  down  at 
him. 

“.  . . I thought  . . . you  would  be 
. . . dead  by  now,’’  said  the  disem- 
bodied voice  of  Harry,  hanging  in 
the  air  of  the  chamber.  “.  . . Amaz- 
ing . . . survival  completely  without 
. . . equipment.  Must  keep  you 
now  . . .’’  The  eyes,  yellow  as  topaz, 
considered  Harry,  huddled  abjectly 
on  the  floor,  “.  . . cage  . . . collector’s 
item.  . 

The  alien  revolved  back  to  the 
indentations  of  the  wall  a little  way 
from  the  alcove.  The  broad,  fleshy 
back  turned  contemptuously  on 
Harry,  who  stared  up  at  it. 

The  pitiful  expression  of  fear  on 
Harry’s  face  faded  suddenly  into  a 
soundless  snarl.  Silently,  he  uncoiled, 
snatched  up  the  rock  the  Other  had 
so  easily  taken  from  him,  and  sprang 
with  it  onto  the  broad  back. 

As  he  caught  and  clung  there, 
one  arm  wrapped  around  a thick 


neck,  the  stone  striking  down  on  the 
hairless  skull,  his  silent  snarl  burst 
out  at  last  into  the  sound  of  a 
scream  of  triumph. 

The  Other  screamed  too  — a 
bubbling  roar  — as  he  clumsily 
turned,  trying  to  reach  around  him- 
self with  his  thick  short  arm^  and 
pluck  Harry  loose.  His  claws  raked 
Harry’^  throat-encircling  arm,  and 
blood  streamed  from  the  arm;  but 
it  might  have  been  so  much  stage 
make-up  for  the  effect  it  had  in 
loosening  Harry’s  hold.  Screaming, 
Harry  continued  to  pound  crushingly 
on  the  Other’s  skull.  With  a furious 
spasm,  the  alien  tore  Harry  loose, 
and  they  both  fell  on  the  floor. 

The  Other  was  first  up;  and  for 
a second  he  loomed  like  a giant  over 
Harry,  as  Harry  was  scrambling  to 
his  own  feet  and  retrieving  the  fallen 
rock.  But  instead  of  attacking,  the 
Other  flung  away,  lunging  for  the 
alcove  and  the  control  indentations 
there. 

Harry  reached  the  alcove  entrance 
before  him.  The  alien  dodged  away 
from  the  striking  rock.  Roaring  and 
bubbling,  he  fled  waddling  from  his 
human  pursuer,  trying  to  circle 
around  the  room  and  get  back  to 
the  alcove.  Half  a head  taller  than 
Harry  and  twice  Harry’s  weight,  he 
was  refusing  personal  battle  and 
putting  all  his  efforts  into  reaching 
the  alcove  with  its  rows  of  indented 
controls.  Twice  Harry  headed  him 
off;  and  then  by  sheer  mass  and  des- 
peration, the  Other  turned  and  burst 
past  into  the  alcove,  thick  hands 
outstretched  and  grasping  at  its  walls. 
Harry  leaped  in  pursuit,  landing  and 
clinging  to  the  broad,  fleshy  back. 


IN  THE  BONE 


157 


The  other  stumbled  under  the 
added  weight,  and  fell,  face  down. 
Triumphantly  yelling,  Harry  rode 
the  heavy  body  to  the  floor,  striking 
at  the  hairless  head  . . . and  striking 
. . . and  striking  . . . 

VI 

Sometime  later,  Harry  came  wear- 
ily to  his  senses  and  dropped  a 
i ock  he  no  longer  had  the  strength 
lO  lift.  He  blinked  around  himself 
like  a man  waking  from  a dream, 
becoming  aware  of  a brilliantly  lit 
room  full  of  strange  shapes  — and 
of  a small  alcove,  the  walls  of  which 
were  covered  with  rows  of  indenta- 
tions, in  which  something  large  and 
dead  lay  with  its  head  smashed  into 
ruin.  A deep,  clawing  thirst  rose  to 
take  Harry  by  the  throat,  and  he 
staggered  to  his  feet. 

He  looked  longingly  up  at  the  dark 
opening  of  the  ventilator  over  his 
head;  but  he  was  too  exhausted  to 
jump  up,  cling  to  its  edge  and  pull 
himself  back  into  the  ductwork, 
from  which  he  could  return  to  the 
stream  outside  the  pyramid  and  to 
the  flowing  water  there.  He  turned 
and  stumbled  from  the  chamber  in- 
to unfamiliar  rooms  and  corridors. 

A brilliant  light  illuminated  every- 
thing around  him  as  he  went.  He 
sniffed  and*  thought  he  scented, 
through  the  musky  reek  that  filled 
the  air  about  him,  the  clear  odor 
of  water.  Gradually,  the  scent  grew 
stronger  and  led  him  at  last  to  a 
room  where  a bright  stream  leaped 
from  a wall  into  a basin  where  it 
pooled  brightly  before  draining 
away.  He  drank  deeply  and  rested. 


Finally,  satiated,  he  turned  away 
from  the  basin  and  came  face-to- 
face  with  a wall  that  was  all-reflect- 
ing surface;  and  he  stopped  dead, 
staring  at  himself,  like  Adam  before 
the  Fall. 

It  was  only  then,  with  the  upwell- 
ing  of  his  returning  humanness,  that 
he  realized  his  condition.  And  words 
spoken  aloud  for  the  first  time  in 
months  broke  harshly  and  riistily 
from  his  lips  like  the  sounds  of  a 
machine  unused  for  years. 

“My  God!”  he  said,  croakingly. 
“I’ve,  got  no  clothes  left!” 

And  he  began  to  laugh.  Cackling, 
cackling  rasping  more  unnaturally 
even  than  his  speech,  his  laughter 
lifted  and  echoed  hideously  through 
the  silent,  alien  rooms.  But  it  was 
laughter  all  the  same  — the  one 
sound  that  distinguishes  man  from 
the  animal. 

He  was  six  months  after  that 
learning  to  be  a complete  hu- 
man being  again  and  finding  out  how 
to  control  the  pyramid.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  highly  sophisticated 
safety  devices  built  into  the  alien 
machine,  he  would  never  have  lived 
to  complete  that  bit  of  self-educa- 
tion. 

But  finally  he  mastered  the  con- 
trols and  got  the  pyramid  into  orbit, 
where  he  collected  the  rest  of  his 
official  self  and  shifted  back  through 
the  alternate  universe  to  Earth. 

He  messaged  ahead  before  he 
landed;  and  everybody  who  could 
be  there  was  on  hand  to  meet  him 
as  he  landed  the  pyramid.  Some  of 
the  hands  that  had  slapped  his  back 
on  leaving  were  raised  to  slap  him 


158 


IF 


again  when  at  last  he  stepped  forth 
among  them. 

But,  not  very  surprisingly,  when 
his  gaunt  figure  in  a spare  coverall 
now  too  big  for  it,  with  shoulder- 
length  hair  and  burning  eyes,  stepped 
into  their  midst,  not  one  hand  fin- 
ished its  gesture.  No  one  in  his  right 
senses  slaps  an  unchained  wolf  on 
the  back;  and  no  one,  after  one  look, 
wished  to  risk  slapping  the  man  who 
seemed  to  have  taken  the  place  of 
Harry. 

Of  course,  he  was  still  the  same 
man  they  had  sent  out  — of  course 
he  was.  But  at  the  same  time  he  was 
also  the  man  who  had  returned 
from  a world  numbered  1242  and 
from  a duel  to  the  death  there  with 
a representative  of  a race  a hun- 
dred times  more  advanced  than  his 


own.  And  in  the  process  he  had  been 
pared  down  to  something  very  basic 
in  his  human  blood  and  bone,  some- 
thing dating  back  to  before  the  first 
crude  wheel  or  chipped  flint  knife. 

And  what  was  that?  Go  down  into 
the  valley  of  the  shades  and  demand 
your  answer  of  a dead  alien  with  his 
head  crushed  in,  who  once  treated 
the  utmost  powers  of  modern  human 
science  as  a man  treats  the  annoy- 
ance of  a buzzing  mosquito. 

Or,  if  that  once-mighty  traveller 
in  spacegoing  pyramids  is  disin- 
clined to  talk,  turn  and  inquire  of 
other  ghosts  you  will  find  there  — 
those  of  the  aurochs,  the  great  cave 
bear  and  the  woolly  mammoth. 

They,  too,  can  testify  to  the  ef- 
fectiveness of  naked  men. 

END 


The  World's  Most  Widely  Read  5F  Magazine 

THE  PALACE  OF  LOVE 

by  Jack  Vance 

THE  SHIP  WHO  KILLED 

by  Anne  McCaffrey 

TOO  MANY  ESKS 

by  Hayden  Howard 

HOW  THE  HEROES  DIE 

by  Larry  Niven 

Plus  stories  and  features  by  Willy  Ley,  Algis  Budrys,  Arthur  C.  Clarke 
and  many  others.  Galaxy  appears  in  Italian,  German,  Spanish,  French, 
Japanese,  Broille,  Dutch  and  other  editions  — read  the  big  October 
issue  and  see  whyl 


IN  THE  BONE 


159 


HUE 

AND 

CRY 


Dear  Editor: 

I tbink  If  bad  a great  year  in 
^65!  In  my  opinion,  the  serials  de- 
cide whether  a mag  will  fly  or 
flop,  and  If  s really  airborne.  Here 
are  the  four  serials  rated  in  order. 

1.  Skylark  DuQuesne  — I have 
to  admit  that  before  I read  this 
yarn,  I was  a little  leary.  I had 
never  read  any  of  Doc  Smith's 
works  before,  and  I was  wondering 
how  I would  take  to  the  five  part- 
er  (thank  God  it  turned  out  igood!). 
All  I have  to  say  is  that  if  this 
is  space  opera,  I like  it.  $ 

2.  Retie fs  War  — This  light  ad- 
venture by  Mr.  Laumer  deserves 
quite  a band.  His  characters  are 
unique  and  I praise  his  fertile 
imagination.  Some  parts  were 
strictly  from  Robin  Hood,  but  as  a 
whole  I found  it  very  entertaining. 
I'm  really  looking  forward  to  more 
of  Retief.  ’ 

3.  Star  Child  — This  was  a very 
good'  serial,  though  my  interest  lag- 
ged in  spots.  I'm  glad  to  hear  that 
another  Reef  story  is  in  the  mak- 
ing. This  is  one  of  the  better  series 
that  I've  read. 

4.  Altar  at  Ascone  — I had  to 
rate  this  fourth,  mostly  because  it 
wasn't  long  enough.  I enjoy  longer 


serials  and  would  like  to  have  seen 
it  in  three  parts.  I'm  glad  to  see  that 
he  has  a short  novel  in  the  March 
66  issue. 

I like  your  policy  of  one  new 
writer  in  each  issue.  I was  about  to 
put  in  a plea  in  this  letter  for  some 
articles  on  story  writing,  fandom, 
etc.,  until  I got  my  April  issue.  I 
really  enjoyed  Lin  Carter's  piece 
on  fandom. 

Do  you  think  it  would  be  possible 
to  reproduce  If  and  Galaxy  cov- 
ers? And  thinking  of  covers,  I 
couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I 
found  out  that  Morrow  did  the  April 
cover.  It's  just  not  his  style.  Then 
I really  got  a shock  when  I saw  the 
illos  for  Earthblood.  They  look  the 
work  of  Morrow  or  Wood. 

I haven't  gotten  down  to  Hedn- 
lein's  new  novel  yet,  but  I'm  hop- 
ing it  will  be  a Hugo  winner.  Looks 
like  another  good  year. 

Finally,  do  you  read  all  the 
manuscripts  yourself,  or  do  you 
have  first  and  second  readers?  — 
Mike  Buchta,  5821  W.  Adler,  Mil- 
waukee, Wisconsin  53214. 

# I read  them  all  myself  — all 
4,000  a year  of  them.  That's  why 
they  call  me  Blinky. — Editor, 

« « 


160 


IF 


Dear  Editor: 

I have  been  reading  your  maga- 
zine for  about  a year  now  and  think 
it  is  the  best  one  on  the  market  to- 
day. Your  June  issue  was  excellent 
with  M android  being  one  of  the  best 
complete  short  novels  I have  read. 

Thanks  for  the  Our  Man  in  Fan- 
dom features.  I’m  learning  things 
about  it  I never  knew  existed  before. 

Earthhlood  is  the  best  novel  1 
have  read  for  a long  time  although 
I have  not  read  all  of  it  yet.  I think 
it  is  even  better  than  The  Moon  Is 
a Harsh  Mistress.  Laumer  and 
Brown  make  a very  good  team.  The 
description  of  the  beautiful  Terran 
park  was  wonderful.  I found  myself 
walking  around  it  without  a care 
in  the  world. 

In  your  Sept.  ’65  issue  you  pub- 
lished a story  by  E.  Clayton  Mc- 
Carty called  The  Planet  Player.  I’ve 
read  it  about  a dozen  times  now. 
Let’s  see  more  of  him. 

I’m  glad  to  see  that  no  science 
articles  will  appear  in  your  mag, 
I like  them  but  it  would  spoil  If  as 
they  are  not  suitable  for  it. 

Is  there  any  special  address  for 
back  issues?  I want  to  get  back  is- 
sues of  W.O.T.  (another  excellent 
mag.)  and  If. 

Congratulations  on  getting  the 
Doc  Smith  Skylark  award.  You  de- 
served it.  — Nick  Grimshawe,  RR- 
#2,  AUiaton,  Ontario,  Canada. 

# Back  issues  of  all  our  magazines 
are  available  from:  Back  Number 
Department,  Galaxy  Publishing 
Corp.,  421  Hudson  Street,  New  York 
City  10014.  Specify  date  and  mag- 
azine. 50c  each,  U.  S.,  postpaid. 

— Editor 

>i(  « « 


Dear  Editor: 

Toys  for  Debbie  by  David  A.  Kyle 
rang  the  bell  for  me.  What  a story! 
And  what  toys!  ALL  the  stories 
were  well  wor^  reading  — the  illus- 
trations were  wonderful  — your 
‘‘letters’'  department  was  fine! 

If  I sound  extra  enthusiastic  it’s 
because  I AM!  I’m  a lover  of  “dif- 
ferent” stories  from  way  back.  I’m 
pushing  70  now.  My  birthday  is  Jan- 
uary 19,  hubby’s  is  January  18  — 
do  we  have  any  “birthday  twins” 
among  your  readers? 

My  hubby  and  I have  one  entire 
room  lined  with  weird  and  fantastic 
books  and  magazines.  We  were  in- 
timate friends  of  the  late  author  of 
the  weird  and  uncanny,  H.  P.  Love- 
craft.  We  spent  many  pleasant  night- 
time hours  with  this  fantastic  man, 
listening  to  him  read  his  manu- 
scripts aloud  under  flickering  gas- 
light. This  was  in  the  early  ’20s, 
when  everybody  didn’t  have  electri- 
city in  their  homes!  Nights  seemed 
darker,  then  . . . and  as  H.  P.  L. 
loved  darkness,  we  three  reveled  in 
it,  as  we  pictured  monsters,  hobgob- 
lins, shapeless  creatures  of  his  own 
imagination  and  witches  steeped  in 
witchcraft,  while  Lovecraft  nibbled 
on  a chicken  leg  and  enjoyed  our 
hospitality! 

I could  ramble  on  and  on  about 
our  association  with  this  master  of 
the  weird.  We  visit  his  grave  often, 
and  we  have  many  pictures  of  H.  P. 
L.  and  even  one  of  his  parents!  We 
revere  his  memory  and  in  his  honor 
we  peruse  all  “different”  publica- 
tions on  the  newsstands.  Yours  wins 
top  honors  with  us!  Also  your  cover 
appealed  greatly  to  me,  and  it  illus- 
trated your  feature  story,  a corker 
— The  Moon  Is  a Harsh  MistresSf 


HUE  & CRY 


161 


by  Robert  A.  Heinlein  — beautiful- 
ly. YouVe  got  yourself  a s-teady  If 
reader!  — Mrs.  Muriel  E.  Eddy, 
Pres-ident,  R.  I.  Writers’  Guild,  688 
Prairie  Avenue,  Providence,  Rhode 
Island  02905. 

« « ♦ 

Dear  Editor: 

In  your  June,  1966  issue  of  If 
there  appears  an  article  entitled  A 
Relativistic  Dilemma  in  which  you 
present  the  complications  connected 
with  relativistic  mass  and  energy 
conservation,  wherein  you  invite  the 
ambitious  reader  to  come  up  with  a 
solution. 

I spend  most  of  my  time  reading 
science  fiction  and  I study  a little 
nuclear  physics  on  the  side,  so  I 
figured  I was  well  enough  equipped 
to  tackle  the  problem.  Here’s  what 
I came  up  with: 

The  Lorentz  contraction  theory 
states  that,  as  the  velocity  of  a body 
increases,  its  diameter  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  acceleration  decreases 
proportionately.  Hence  at  the  speed 
of  light  one  not  only  has  an  infinite 
mass  but  also  a two-dimensional 
mass. 

However,  the  infinite  mass  con- 
cept seems  somewhat  odd,  because  as 
you  mentioned  in  your  article  light 
is  composed  of  particles  (photons) 
which  indeed  do  travel  at  the  speed 
of  light,  and  yet  possess  no  infinite 
mass. 

I propose  a new  theory.  When  a 
mass  reaches  the  speed  of  light  it 
is  converted  to  light  itself,  and  the 
light  has  an  energy  equivalent  to 
the  mass  according  to  e=mc2.  This 
might  also  account  for  the  dimen- 
sional problem.  How  many  dimen- 
sions does  energy  have?  Certainly 


not  three.  — Jim  Murray,  150  Har- 
rison Avenue,  Jersey  City  4,  New 
Jersey. 

4c  « « 

Dear  Editor: 

I have  just  finished  your  May  ’66 
issue  and,  to  be  euphemistic,  I think 
the  art  work  on  the  cover  is  atro- 
cious. For  one  thing,  it  is  terribly 
unscientific,  since  it  is  probably  un- 
likely that  a creature,  such  as  the 
one  pictured,  with  three-digited 
claws  for  hands,  lack  of  binocular 
vision  and  apparent  lack  of  ears  and 
nose,  would  be  technically  advanced 
enough  to  be  flying  around  in  space- 
ships. But  this  is  a flyspeck.  What 
bothered  me  was  that  in  no  way 
could  I stretch  my  imagination 
enough  to  make  it  jibe  with  Silkies 
in  Space,  which  it  was  supposed  to 
represent.  But  never  fear.  Like  all 
know-it-alls,  I have  a solution  to 
this  problem. 

First,  you  could  give  the  axe  to 
all  your  cover  artists  and  simply 
reprint  Picasso’s  nightmares  on  the 
cover.  This  would  remove  your  every 
cover  from  the  realm  of  science  and 
put  them  in  the  realm  of  art,  where 
anything  goes.  No  problem  of  rep- 
resentation, because  they  could  rep- 
resent anything  you  say  and  no  one 
could  refute  you. 

Or  you  could  reprint  the  covers 
from  the  old  pulp  magazines,  which, 
I am  told,  characteristically  showed 
a horny  green  grasshopper-man  ab- 
ducting some  sexy  babe  clad  in  a 
transparent  space  suit.  At  least  this 
made  sense.  Almost.  Well,  anyway, 
it  certainly  would  improve  the  cover. 
By  the  way,  Earthblood  is  excellent. 
— ^ohn  T.  Sanner,  715  East  Ann, 
Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  48104. 


162 


IF 


Seated  ;Bennett  Cerf,  Faith  Baldwin,  Bergen  Evans,  Bruce  Catton,  Mignon  G.Eberhart,  John  Caples, 
J.  D.  Ratcliff.  Standing:  Mark  Wiseman,  Max  Shulman,  Rudolf  Flesch,  Red  Smith,  Rod  Serling. 


“We’re  looking  for  people 
who  want  to  write” 

-r: ' 


By  Gordon  Carroll 

Director,  Famous  Writers  School.  Former 
editor.  Reader's  Digest,  Time,  Inc.,  Coronet 

If  you  want  to  write,  my  colleagues  and 
1 would  like  to  test  your  writing  aptitude. 
We’ll  help  you  find  out  if  you  can  be 
trained  to  become  a successful  writer. 

Several  years  ago,  we  started  the 
Famous  Writers  School.  Our  aim  was  to 
help  qualified  people  acquire  the  skills 
they  need  to  break  into  print.  We  poured 
everything  we  knew  about  writing  into 
a new  kind  of  professional  training 
course,  which  you  take  at  home  and  in 
your  free  time.  After  a solid  grounding 
in  fundamentals,  ypu  get  advanced  train- 
ing in  the  specialty  of  your  choice— Fic- 
tion, Non-Fiction,  Advertising  or  Busi- 
ness Writing. 

Each  of  your  writing  assignments  is 
examined  by  instructors  who  are  them- 
selves professional  writers  or  editors. 
Your  instructor  spends  up  to  two  hours 
analyzing  your  work.  He  bfiie-pencils 
corrections  right  on  it  — much  as  an 
editor  does  with  established  writers. 
Then  he  returns  it  to  you  with  a long 
personal  letter  of  advice  and  specific 
recommendations. 

This  training  works  well.  Our  siudents 
have  sold  ihcir  writing  to  more  than  100 


publications  including  Reader  s Digest, 
True,  Redbook.  ^ 

Stephen  Novak  of  Wayne,  N.  J.,  says, 
“I  just  received  a check  from  Ellery 
Queen's  Mystery  Magazine.  That’s  11 
stories  sold  in  six  months.”  Doris  Steb- 
bins  of  S.  Coventry,  Conn.,  who  has  sold 
six  stories  to  Woman’s  Day  for  $2,050 
writes,  “Taking  your  Course  has  made 
it  all  possible.” 

Writing  Aptitude  Test  offered 

To  find  out  if  you  can  benefit  from  this 
training,  send  for  th®  School’s  Aptitude 
Test.  If  you  test  well,  or  offer  other  evi- 
dence of  writing  ability  you  may  enroll. 
But  there  is  no  obligation  to  do  so. 

r — - 

I Famous  Writers  School 

j Dept.  7023,  Westport  Connecticut  06880 
I I want  to  know  if  I have  writing  aptitude, 
j Please  mail  me,  free,  your  Writing  Aptitude 
I Test  and  48-page  illustrated  brochure. 

1 Mr. 

j Mrs Age 

I Miss  [Circle  one  and  please  print] 

> Street 

I ( ity 

I State Zip 

j Accredited  by  the  Accrediting  Commission 
I i>f  the  National  Home  Study  Council. 


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